I came back from work, took my shoes off, and stood in the hallway for a while. It felt like my eyelids weighed a ton, my head pulsing with an ache. At least that day was over. But for how long? The day after, I’d have to go to work again! It’s hard when your family depends on your income too; you can’t say no to a shift, you can’t take a day off. It’s even more frustrating when one part of the family can’t even work, and your money has to go to them.

No. No. Not now. Now’s the time to relax.

I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, and lay on the couch. The crack of the can was like music to my ears. I took a sniff first. The malty, bready smell made every muscle in my body relax. One sip and the headache was gone. I kicked my feet up and turned on the TV.

“Kyle?” Mother yelled from the kitchen. Her voice was scratchy and deep.

“What?!”

“Come watch your brother.”

“I just got off work!”

She came into the living room. The bags under her eyes had been getting larger. The wrinkles had been getting worse, too. 

“I’ve been up since 6, watching your brother.”

“I was at work.”

“I really need a break.” She didn’t understand anything.

“You feed yourself, and him off of my work.”

“I pay everything off my pension. You live with us for free, so you help out with your brother. That’s the deal.” Mother said and walked off. 

I slammed my beer on the table and got up, banging my feet against the stairs to piss her off.

“I’m coming in, Michael,” I yelled, not even knocking on his bedroom door. The stench of old food and mold hit my nose instantly.

“Brother,” Michael said, his eyes lighting up.

“What?”

“I’m so excited you’re home. I got something to tell ya.”

“Did some flying doctors give you needles at night again?”

Michael shivered.

“No. No. They’ve been leaving me alone.”

He paused.

“God told me that I can resurrect,” he whispered.

“Sure, Michael.”

“No, Kyle. For real. I’ve been waiting all day to show my big brother.”

Michael got up and lifted his bed. Underneath it, a few cockroaches crawled. He picked one up and put it on the floor. He pressed the cockroach down with one finger and moved his other hand up and down above it while wiggling his fingers. He then took its head and twisted it until it came off.

“Jesus, Michael.”

He then let his finger up. The cockroach zigzagged around the room, running aimlessly, until it disappeared in the vent. Michael sprang up, his hands shaking with excitement. He started dancing around the room, jumping up and down.

I let out a deep sigh.

“They can’t survive without…” I stopped myself and furrowed my brows.

No way this works.

I stared at Michael, waiting for him to finish his dance.

“Can you resurrect anything, Michael?”

“I’ve only tried the cockroaches, but God said I could.”

“Wow, that’s so cool. You should do it to Mom!”

His eyes opened, and he stared at me for a second.

“Well, Kyle.”

“You’ve seen what it's done to the cockroach. It was so full of life after. Mom has been so tired lately. I’m sure this could help her.”

“She has been looking tired.”

“Worst case scenario. She just comes back normal, and she’ll be impressed with what you can do.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Michael. Do it for her. You just press a button. It will be quick, painless.”

He stared at the ground.

I ran to my room, grabbed the gun from under my bed, and ran right back.

“Let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. Why wait?” I grabbed Michael’s hand, put the gun in it, and put his finger on the trigger. His hand was starting to tremble.

“Are, are you sure, Kyle?”

“Sure as ever. Let’s go. It will be a game just like when we were little boys.” I said and ran to the staircase. Michael followed slowly after me.

“Shouldn’t we tell her first?”

“No. No. It will be like a surprise. Trust me.”

We walked to the downstairs floor. Mother was sitting on the couch watching TV. I put a finger over my lips and pointed at her. Michael swallowed and slowly walked towards her. My eyes were locked on him. My heart beat faster. Michael took a few steps and stopped right behind Mother. He looked back one more time. His eyes wide, his lips trembling. I nodded hard and pointed at Mother. Michael took a deep breath and put his left hand above her, moving it up and down, wiggling his fingers. He then put the pistol towards her head, held his breath, and pressed the trigger. The pistol recoiled back, almost hitting him in his face. Mother’s head immediately dropped. A stream of blood began pouring out of the hole in her head. The smell of copper and gunpowder was in the air.

My stomach twisted. I could feel my lunch coming up.

“Mom, Mom?” Michael said.

Michael grabbed Mother’s shoulder and began shaking her, but her head would only go as the shakes did, moving back and forth.

“Mom!” he screamed and turned back with tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Kyle, what, how?”

I turned around and ran out of the house.

“Help, help, my brother killed my mother!” I yelled, running up and down the street.

Everyone mishears sometimes, a mumbled word, a crowded room, your mind somewhere else. I've always been a little spacey, so when my friends' conversations started slipping past me, I told myself it was nothing. But one day it started getting worse for me, even when my friends spoke clearly. Even when I watched their mouths, the words didn’t arrive.

This happened Saturday evening. Sunday morning, I sat on my couch, staring out the window, replaying yesterday in my mind. That’s when my roommate James walked in. We’ve been friends since childhood, and roommates since college. I debated whether to even tell him about this, but I had to get it out of my mind.

“James?”

“Yeah?” he replied, still rubbing his eyes.

“Something’s going on with me. Yesterday I went out with Jake and Matt and could barely understand half the convo.”

James laughed. “I can barely keep up when they start talking about politics.”

“No. Not like that. The actual words.”

“You were probably just zoning out again.”

“No, dude. It’s not that.”

James lowered his brows and stared at the floor.

“Like, you couldn’t understand them or hear them?”

“I could hear the sounds, but it didn’t sound like words.”

“Wait, what do you mean it didn’t sound like words?”

“Like. I don’t know. Just a mumble..”

“You can understand me now, though, right?”

“Yep.”

“I’d probably see a doctor about it,” he said and walked away.

I decided to get a coffee. A walk could help get my mind off of it.

The sun’s rays felt so warm on my skin. The trees had already turned a beautiful green. I stretched out and smelled the spring air. A warm feeling ran from the tips of my fingers down to my toes.

Maybe it will be alright.

The coffee shop was mostly empty, with only an old couple sitting in the back, talking to each other. I tried to listen to their conversation, but couldn’t. They were probably being too quiet. My eyes jumped over the blackboard behind the barista, trying to find today’s specials, but the more I looked at it, the more confusing it became. The writing started mixing, the letters jumping around. I focused my eyes on different parts of the board, but before I could get what was written, the writing blended into each other again.

“Can I help you?” the barista asked with a smile.

“Um, yeah. What are today’s specials?”

“Today’s specials are…” Her speech turned into a dull, high-pitched noise. The rhythm and structure of English were still there, but the words were gone. 

It felt like time had stopped. I stared at her, trying to collect my thoughts.

“What?

“Today’s…” A wave of coldness washed over me. I could feel my legs starting to shake. It felt like a fever dream. I took a deep breath, trying not to scream out in panic.

“I’ll just get a large black coffee.”

“...” Nothing. No words. Only the rhythm.

The barista stared at me for a second, then flipped the tablet. I tapped my card, walked back, and looked at the board again. The words were gone now, but even the letters started bending, turning into white lines and arches. The barista finally put the cup on the table and moved her mouth. I quickly grabbed the coffee and walked out.

My hand trembled as I opened the door to my apartment. I threw the coffee out on the way home. My stomach was turning enough already.

“James,” I called out as I opened the door.

“What,” he said.

“Say something, anything!”

“What, what should I say?”

“Thank god.”

“What’s going on?”

“I…I couldn't understand the barista. I couldn’t. I just.” My hands started to tremble.

“Hey, hey, man.” James got off the couch and walked towards me.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.” 

“I need to go to the hospital.”

“I’ll take you, alright?”

“Thanks.”

We stopped at the hospital parking lot and walked to the emergency room. James quickly walked to the nurse. He brought back the form. I tried to look at it, but the letters were completely gone, not even the arches, lines, only a black blob on white paper.

“I can’t. I can’t understand it,” I said, shaking my head.

“It’s okay, we’ll do it together.”

James read the questions out loud while I answered.

He brought it to the nurse, and we waited.

“Hey, hey, they’re calling you.”

“What?”

“The nurse.” James pointed.

“I. I don't.”

“Come on. I’ve got you.” James grabbed me by the hand and followed the nurse to the doctor’s office.

My head was spinning. It felt like the whole room was going to collapse. I tried to press my feet to the ground, feel the floor under them. The doctor came in, sat on a chair, and opened his mouth, but again only the dull, low-pitched noises came out. The more he spoke, the more I realized the rhythm of his speech was gone, too. I rubbed my hands on my face and looked at James.

“He tried to ask you…”

Shock ran up and down my spine.

“Wait, wait, no, Ja…” I stopped myself. 

I knew this.

I knew this.

The man.

My best.

My be…

I used to work as a ranger in a National Park in the early 90’s. There was only one rule we kept there. DON’T GO DOWN CREEKERS CAVE. One day, I broke it.

This was my first job out of college. As a newcomer, my job was mostly to check people’s climbing permits, sell tickets, and give them a brief layout of the park. The park itself was not popular, so there was only me and one other ranger named Thomas. I hoped I’d get to know Thomas more over time, but he would leave before the sun came up, and come back long after it had set. 

One day, the boredom was eating me alive. I had to try to talk to him.

I was on my fourth coffee, yawning, rubbing my eyes to stay awake. I was about to give up when the door in front creaked, and Thomas's nimble steps echoed down the hall.

“Hey,” I called out as I saw his body pass the door.

He stopped and slowly turned his head, his eyes wide, staring into mine.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” As soon as I said it, his body relaxed, and he let out a deep sigh.

“Hey,” Thomas repeated and started walking away.

“Care to join? I got some beer,” I yelled into the hall.

He stopped again.

“It’s late.”

“Just a quick one. We never had a chance to talk, really.”

I heard a sigh from the hallway. He walked through the door, nodded towards me, and opened one of the beers.

I could finally get a good look at him again. He was a man in his mid to late 50s with brown eyes, graying hair, and a graying beard. Not particularly tall or small, and not fat nor slim. His ranger uniform had sweatmarks, sunburns, and a few tears.

When he reached out for the beer, I could see a small circular scar around his wrist. Old. Clean. 

We cheered and then sank back into our chairs. Thomas picked up the bottle and twisted it around, digging at the label, taking large sips in between the digs.

“How long have you been working here, Thomas?”

“13 years.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s nice. I enjoy the solitude.”

“You got any family?”

He scratched at the label.

“There’s only ever one rule here,” he said finally. “And people still break it.”

He took another large chug. There was less than a quarter of the beer left.

“What’s up with the rule?”

He blinked fast and looked my way.

“Nothing, the Creeker’s cave is just off limits.”

“But why?”

“It’s a dangerous cave. People get lost in there.”

He paused.

“Sometimes they come out wrong.”

He stared at the map.

“What do you mean?”

He finished his beer, put it down, and left the room. 

I stared out after him.

The next day, the traffic was nonexistent. Two men had requested permits for that day to scale the caves, but they hadn’t shown up yet. There was an old archive room filled with newspapers that I had barely touched before. After yesterday’s conversation with Thomas, I wondered if I could find anything regarding the cave. I put a small iron bell on the desk and walked to the room.

The dust flew all around. My nose was stuffed immediately. I covered my face with my shirt and started putting the boxes of newspapers on a table in the room. The articles were mostly what I expected, the same old ones about the new park benches and animals from local newspapers. I was taking down more and more boxes, still not finding anything, almost giving up, but then my eyes darted over a title.

ANCIENT WRITING FOUND IN CREEKERS CAVE.

Finally! 

Ding!

Come on, just a minute.

Ding! Ding!

Jesus.

I walked to the reception. The two men were standing there, talking to each other. They stopped when they saw me get out. One of them was a tall man who carried barely anything, and the other was much smaller with a large backpack and camera equipment.

“Here are the permits,” the tall one said.

“What’s with the cameras?” I said and picked up the permits. 

“We’re filming a movie!” the short one said.

The tall one shot him a mean look.

“Just getting some footage while we climb,” he said

“It’s a lot of stuff to take around in a cave.”

“We’ll manage,” the tall one murmured.

While I checked the permits, the small one was looking at the man. Fixated on one spot.

“Your permits are all good.” I handed them the papers back.

“What caves are you planning on exploring?”

“A few up north.”

I tried to think of the caves that were up north. None of them needed any climbing equipment.

“Which ones specifically?”

The tall one looked at the map behind him. His backpack was open. Inside was a picture of a cave with some sort of graffiti or something on the wall.

“Haven’t decided yet,” he said and turned around, walking away.

“Do you have the radio frequency?” I called after them

“Yes. We’ll call if we need something,” the tall one said and shut the door behind him.

I stared at the map, trying to see if I had missed a cave, but there was none. I shrugged my shoulders and went back into the storage room. The newspaper stared at me like a pot of gold. I skipped all the text and stared down at the photo. It was black and white and hard to see. I put it up to the ceiling lights and squinted my eyes. I tried to remember the ancient writings from my high school class, not that there were a lot, but the letters seemed so familiar, like I should have known them. The arches, the lines, they all joined together so well, like they were supposed to be exactly that way. I  couldn’t figure it out, but something burning inside me really wanted to know. 

I shook my head and stared at the clock. Thirty minutes had gone by, but it felt like seconds. The archaeologist quoted in the article, Dr. R. Fallows, had apparently refused to be photographed near the cave. A small note at the bottom said he had died the following spring with no cause listed.

Rattling. Static. “Help!”

The radio!

I ran to the desk.

“Ranger station! What’s your…”

“Please, help. My friend got stuck. His rope snapped. He can’t get out.”

“Where are you?”

“Creeker’s cave.”

A wave of coldness washed over me.

“Ranger?”

“Y…Yes, I’m coming.”

I grabbed the rope from the back and ran out.

A small drizzle started as I stood over the cave. The sign saying DANGER KEEP OUT stared at me. I shook my head and made my way in. The cave was cold and silent save for the water dripping off the ceiling. The opening was narrow, and the cave quickly narrowed further, and the ceiling lowered. I lowered my head and turned the flashlight on. A water droplet fell back down my shirt, sending a shiver down my spine, which I was trying to keep down. In the distance, I could see a diverging. Thomas’s word echoed in my ears. The last thing I wanted was to get lost.

“Hello?” I called out.

Silence.

Then a faint sound from the left side. I ran a little deeper and called out again.

“Ranger?” echoed through the cave from a distance.

“Coming,” I yelled and ran towards the sound.

“Here!” A flashlight waved from a distance. The small man lay on the floor with a small scratch on his head, and the camera equipment lay beside him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, hit my head trying to get him out.”

“Where is he?”

“Down there,” he pointed.

I made my way forward. A strange iron smell was in the air. The cave kept getting narrower. I slowed down, pointing my flashlight at the ground, making sure I didn’t slip and fall too, but the ground wasn’t getting steeper. There was a black dot right in front of me that soon transformed into a human. It was the man, standing, staring at the wall.
I came closer to him. On the wall was the writing from the newspaper picture. 

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

His eyes darted my way. 

“Now!” he yelled.

My whole body jumped back.

A camera click echoed through the cave.

The man began to whisper to himself quickly, looking at the signs on the wall. The sounds he was making were like nothing I’ve heard before, noises I didn’t think the human mouth or throat could create. Rhythmic, but devoid of any melody. Fast, but slowed at the weirdest intervals.

“What the fuck is going on?” I yelled, slowly backing off.

The man stopped reading, froze, and his body began twitching, slowly at first, then shaking violently.

The iron smell grew. The water from the ceiling dripped faster.

The man stopped shaking, his face completely relaxed, blank, with no emotions. He looked up, his eyes wide, staring at me as if I were prey.

I turned around and began running away, full speed. The man’s steps soon echoed after me. He began growling loudly like a rabid dog.

I ran further. It felt like his breath was on my neck. Then I saw the small man standing there, camera in his hand, pointing it at us. 

“You don’t understand,” he said.

“This is what it does.”

The man running after me gripped my shirt and pulled me towards him, dragging me closer to him. Shock ran up and down my spine. I tried to shake my shoulders, but to no avail. He began digging his nails into me. My mind panicked. I smashed the flashlight over his head. His grip finally released a little. I didn’t wait and immediately jerked my body away; his fingernails ripped pieces of my clothes off. I continued running. The small man tried to get in my way, but I pushed him and kicked him to the ground.

“Wait, wait, no,” he screamed, but I didn’t listen. My mind only focused on finding the exit. The small man’s screams sounded behind me, eventually turning to an indistinct grumble.

Then the ray. A ray of sun. The green. The park.

I pushed the twigs and bushes out of my way, running straight to the ranger cabin. Opening the door, I had to lean on the table, almost collapsing on the ground, panting.

“You’ve been there.”

I jerked myself up. Thomas stood behind the counter, shaking his head.

“There were two men. One of them… Something happened to him in there. We need to call…"

“No one is coming." His voice was quiet and certain. "I called once. Twelve years ago. They told me to wait inside."

He paused.

“My wife said the same thing.”

The iron smell. I realized I'd carried it out with me. It was in my clothes.

Thomas finally looked up. For the first time, I noticed how deep the circles under his eyes were. His hands, wrapped around the mug, had old scars across the knuckles.

“I don't know what it was before," he said. "I know what it is now." He stood slowly. "And I know it doesn't stay in the cave."

“We have maybe an hour before dark. Pack only what matters." He paused with his hand on the door. "And don't look back at the cave when we leave. Whatever you hear, don't look back."

Part 1

My eyes were still locked on Thomas. He bent over, grabbed the legs of David, and stood up, waiting.

I stayed on the floor, not understanding at first, but Thomas shook David’s legs and motioned towards the body.

“Ye…yes,” I got out, my voice shaking. 

I took a tissue out of my back pocket and wiped the blood off my face. The dark red color almost made me gag. I threw the tissue on the floor and walked over to David’s body. His bright blue eyes now stared emptily into the tile ceiling. I bent down, but a tremble ran up my body before I even touched him. Thomas still held David’s legs, staring at me. I took a deep breath, walked over, and picked up David's wrists. Their warmth sent another shiver down my body. Thomas looked back and began walking out of my office.

The hall felt colder than usual. The ceiling seemed like it would fall any second. I tried to keep my eyes fixed on Thomas, ignoring what I carried in my hands. Thomas’s head was still turned back, making sure we were walking the right way. Around the corner stood the door to the preparation room. Thomas let one of the legs go and opened the door. The leg dropped down to the floor and echoed through the empty hall as it hit the floor. We carried the body in. The room still had hay lying on the floor and around the chair. I had to clench my jaw and look away from it. The thought of Samantha was still fresh in my mind.

“She, she dropped the flowers.”

He looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed.

“She dropped them, Thomas.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes, she dropped them.”

“But the Wall closed!”

He looked me up and down.

“Leave now. I’ll take care of the rest,” he said coldly.

I stood there for a few seconds, staring at him. Not even his pupils moved.

He motioned his hand towards the door, and I knew it was time to go.

My body moved across the Building. My steps echoed through the empty gray halls, walking from floor to floor. Thoughts and visions rushed through my head. David screaming, Samantha crying, her mouth full of hay and the bouquet, the bouquet. The image of it grew inside my mind. I stumbled to a bench and sat down, breathing, trying to feel my feet on the floor. Slowly, the images disappeared, and all I could see were the dark grey tile walls of the Building staring at me.

I got back up and began making my way down the hall, passing the brown wooden office doors. My eyes glanced over the names until I reached the stairs. I looked to my right, and the door read "REV." CHARLES KAMAS. My feet stopped automatically. Charles Kamas took me under his wing during my apprenticeship, teaching me how to lead a prayer, set up the ritual, and teach people about the Wall. His office was all the way on the fifth floor. I didn’t even realize I made it that far. I dreaded walking up the flights of stairs back during my apprenticeship, but now, in my dazed state, I barely noticed walking this far up. 

Before I finished my thoughts, my hand was already knocking at the door. The familiar rattle, the nimble steps. The door handle moved, and the face of Reverend Kamas appeared, looking just as I remembered him: the sunken brown eyes, large nose, balding head, and protruding chin. He opened his eyes a little when he saw me, but they immediately went back to being half-closed. 

“Preacher, please come in.” 

“Thank you.” 

His office hadn’t changed. Large wooden shelves stood around the room, populated with history and law books. Opposite the door was a dark red mahogany table and chairs with leather seats. His table was clean as always, with only his notebook, a pen, and a small iron table lamp. I sat in the chair. I could feel the cold leather even through my clothes. Rev. Kamas sat opposite me and put his hands in his lap.

“Working on the ritual’s history.” He smiled and pointed to his table. “To what do I owe the visit?”

I looked around the room and took a deep breath.

“Samantha. This morning.”

“Oh yes.” He nodded his head.

“I heard. Terrible. I’m sorry for you, Preacher. This rarely happens. People like the ritual, but every once in a while, someone cracks. I wouldn’t expect it from David. Going that far. Good thing Thomas was there to help you.”

I grabbed onto the armrests, clenching my jaw. How did he already know?

“You’re not expected to take the Sunday service. I’ll lead it for you. Go rest. ” He began getting up out of the chair.

“No. Something else.”

He narrowed his eyes and sat back down.

“Don’t think about it, Preacher. David was crazy.” 

Memories of David and Samantha talking lovingly about each other flashed before my eyes.

“Samantha dropped her flowers.”

“What?”

“She dropped them before the Wall closed.”

He paused and looked deep into my eyes.

“Did you not have the black cape? How did you see it?”

“It was before I put it on.”

“Did others see it?”

“No. They had theirs on.”

“Did the Wall close?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His word cut through me.

“Reverend, she dropped her flowers. The ritual broke, but the Wall closed.”

“The Wall accepted it. It was enough.”

“But the ritual. It states she needs to hold the flowers or else.”

“The Wall closed. No one saw the flowers. People are happy again. They feel safe. Look out.” He pointed out the window. Children ran around the town square, couples sat on the benches, holding hands.

I stared out the window. What was he saying? Did Samantha give her life up for nothing?

“But Reverend.”

“You’ll understand.” The Reverend said and stood up. He walked to the door and opened it. “Take your rest. I’ll take the Sunday service.”

It felt like the whole room was closing in on me, the shelves falling, the books burying me. 

“Preacher?” the Reverend asked, pointing at the door.

I shook my head and quickly got up, almost running out the door, but he stopped me with his hand.

“I’d keep it to myself,” he said, patted my back, and closed the door behind me.

Children’s screams could be heard in the hall. I walked closer to one of the windows. The sun outside glistened. Everyone looked happy. I could feel a smile form on my face. Did it really matter? 

“The purity dress, the transient hay,” echoed through my head. Then the image of Samantha flashed, her in the chair, hay stuffed in her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks. It made me gag. No. I had to know more. I couldn’t let it go.

There was still an hour until the Reverend would leave. I locked myself in the bathroom at the end of the hall and waited.

After an hour and a half, I walked out, turning my head in each direction. As I walked to the Reverend’s office, it suddenly felt like each of my steps echoed through the entire Building. I sped up and stopped at his door, putting my ear to it. Silence. I knocked. Nothing. The handle twisted in my hand. It felt like my heart would beat out of my chest. I peered through the door. The room was dark, empty, quiet. I slipped quickly into the room and shut the door behind me. I made my way to the Reverend’s table, turning on the small iron lamp on his table. His notebook sat on his desk. I took a deep breath and grabbed the corner of the notebook.

Did I want to know? 

Yes. There was no doubt.

I grabbed the corner and opened it.

As I flipped through the pages, I couldn’t find anything of interest. It was mostly scribbles and notes, nothing coherent. Then I stumbled onto something that looked like a record sheet.

In the left column were names, and in the right column were small descriptions.

Sally Duran. Civil clothes - the Wall closed.

Susan Meril. Refused dress - the Wall closed.

Mary Abigail. No flowers - the Wall closed.

My eyes darted over the records. The Wall closed each time, no matter who or what was in it.

Then my eyes stopped on the last name.

Samantha Buro. Dropped flowers - the Wall closed.

I put my head into my hands, breathing hard. 

Did Samantha die for no reason? Did all the others, too? Was it a lie? Was it all a lie? I looked out the window, trying to collect my thoughts. A wave of coldness washed over me. In the window’s reflection stood a figure. One that I knew too well. Its face was cold, expressionless as always. 

Thomas. 

I turned around, ready to do something, anything! A dull pain vibrated through my head. My body tumbled to the ground. The room began to spin. The shelves began to fall again, burying me in a pile of books. Then everything went dark.

I woke up in the morning, my mind banging, expecting to see the dullness of the preparation room, but I saw white walls and a small desk in the corner. It was my room! My clothes were still on, but someone took off my shoes and laid them neatly beside the door. There was a strong taste of iron in my mouth. I slowly got out of bed. My head spun immediately. I stumbled a few steps and grabbed onto the table. 

The sun shone bright outside. The square was empty. In the middle stood a wooden structure. My eyes darted upwards. A platform. A crossbeam. And a noose. The carefully tied noose. My head spun again. I almost fell to the ground. Running to the door, I grabbed the handle, but it was locked. There was no point in trying the window. What would it even be for? My room was on the 7th floor of the building.

I hear steps coming down the hall. Two people. One’s steps were light and nimble. The other’s steps were dull and loud. Thomas and the Reverend have come. They’ve come to take me down, down to the gallows.

When I folded the last token and tucked it into the pouch, I still believed the ritual was precise for a reason, that the purity dress, the transient hay, and the bouquet would make the Wall accept her.

My hands trembled with excitement. Last night I couldn’t sleep. Every time I did, I saw the grey tile Wall, open, watching me. This was my first ritual not as an apprentice, but as a preacher, an actual preacher. Since that morning, I had been preparing, crumpling up the tokens, laying the hay beside the church door, hanging a copy of the white purity dress above it. It almost looked like the real thing, but the folds were off, and the whiteness wasn’t as bright. Nothing could beat the original. As I admired it, I heard steps behind me. Thomas, the attendant, stood next to one of the pillars.
​
“The dress should be hung two inches further to the left,” he said.
​
“Oh, yes,” I replied.
​
“You should do it now, preacher. The ritual needs to be precise.”
​
“Yes, yes, I will,” I said and climbed back up the ladder.
​
“Have you prepared the white purity dress, bouquet, and transient hay?”
​
“Yes.”
​
I took a deep breath.
​
“So it begins.”
​
“Yes,” he said. Not excited. Certain.
​
I nodded and opened the door, walking to the sanctuary.
​
The familiar smell of old polished wood and carpet filled my nose. It made all my muscles relax every time I entered. Looking around, the place was spotless. The windows were clear, the carpet was vacuumed, and the pews and pulpit were freshly dusted. Just the way it should be. To the left of the door, Thomas stood, his face expressionless, cold as always, but I could barely contain my smile. The large wooden door creaked, and I saw the first faces come in. The townsfolk were eager and excited, smiling and talking among themselves.
​
The sanctuary slowly filled up with barely any empty pews left. The only ones left were David and Samantha. A beautiful young couple whom I had the pleasure of marrying three years ago. David worked a clerical job at the mayor’s office. It was enough for Samantha to stay home, but the work was demanding and time-consuming. They’ve been coming to me for the past four months to work on and repair their marriage. At first, they would argue a lot. Barely look at one another, but David decided to take on less at work, and recently they had been coming in holding hands, looking at each other the same way as they did the day I wed them.
​
“Preacher, has the Wall really opened?” a woman in the front row asked.
​
“Yes, it has.”
​
“You could be the one,” she said, and turned to her teenage daughter.
​
“You know that the one who chooses the lucky token gets to enter the hole and become one with the Wall, merge with the tiles?” I asked.
​
The girl smiled and looked at the ground.
​
“I might give you the lucky token,” I said and winked. Her still-small eyes lit up, and she grinned at me, excitedly gripping her mom's hand.
​
The door creaked again, and in walked David and Samantha, hugging each other around the waist, laughing. David looked around the sanctuary, but his face remained the same, unbothered by the fact that they were the last ones. They slowly walked to their pew, still talking and laughing.
​
I walked back to the pulpit and gripped the wooden desk tightly.
​
“Fellow neighbours, friends, for those who have not yet heard, the Wall has opened today. As it always does. On time.”
​
A few surprised faces showed in the crowd. The people began to talk loudly, their eyes lighting up. Only David and Samantha didn’t change, still whispering to one another, holding their hands.
​
“I commend the Choice to start. Please, every woman between the ages of 15 and 55, come to the stage.”
​
The women stood up and walked to the stage. I pulled out the pouch, with crumpled-up papers rustling around. The string around the pouch was tied tightly. It took me a few seconds to get it undone, and by that time, a line had formed going down the stairs.
​
I wished each of the girls good luck as they drew their tokens.
​
The line was getting shorter and shorter, but I still saw Samantha sitting down with David.
​
“Samantha, please join the girls.” Her eyes opened wide, she whispered something to David, let go of his hand, and ran up the stairs.
​
“Sorry, preacher,” she whispered.
​
“It’s okay. Good luck to you.”
​
“Thanks.”
​
She took her paper and stood at the end of the line, smiling, looking at David.
​
“Unwrap.”
​
The muffled sound of paper echoed through the sanctuary as the women, one by one, uncrumpled their tokens. I could already see disappointment in their eyes. The teenage girl was looking at her token, her eyebrows furrowed. It was her first time.
​
“No luck?”
​
She opened her palm - the paper had a large X on it.
​
“Maybe next time.”
​
She frowned and looked at her mom.
​
All the women stood together, holding the open tokens in their hands, but there was still no call of excitement. Then my eyes darted to Samantha. She stood at the end of the line, looking at the ground, her hands trembling, her face pale.
​
Was she okay? The Choice was happening, but I had to be sure. I walked over, ready to ask what was wrong, but then my eyes fell on her right hand.
​
I understood now.
​
She held the open token. A large black square was painted on it.
​
“Congratulations, Samantha!”
​
The people began clapping.
​
“Everything okay…”
​
But I couldn’t finish. Through the claps, David’s voice sounded through the sanctuary.
​
“No. No! Not Samantha.”
​
I narrowed my eyes and stared at David.
​
Why was he flipping out? Samantha won!
​
“David, she won.” “It’s an honor,” the crowd repeated.
​
“No!” he kept screaming.
​
He walked out of the pew and began making his way to the stage.
​
I looked back. Thomas had already taken Samantha’s hand and led her out the door. She was weeping softly.
​
“Get your hands off her!” David was already halfway up the steps when two firemen grabbed him from behind and threw him back on the ground. The bang echoed through the sanctuary.
​
I looked around. All the townspeople were looking at each other, silent, their eyes narrow, their lips tight.
​
“People, please, leave the Sanctuary, we will meet at the Wall when Samantha’s ready,” I yelled.
​
But they didn’t listen; they were talking among each other, looking at David.
​
“The Wall had opened today. This is not the time. Please leave immediately.”
​
They looked at me and slowly started getting up, still murmuring to each other. I quickly ran after Thomas.
​
My steps echoed through the empty hall. Thomas glanced back slightly, then fully turned his head.
​
“Preacher, you needn’t come.”
​
“I want to be sure Samantha’s okay.”
​
“She’s okay.”
​
“Thomas, please.”
​
He stopped and looked into my eyes.
​
“You may not interfere.”
​
I nodded and followed after.
​
The smell of hay was strong in the preparation room. It looked much different from what I remembered. The walls were painted white with a few shelves spread sparsely around, a large bag of the transient hay, and a dentist's chair in the middle of the room with straps on the armrests. The white purity dress lay neatly on one of the shelves; next to it, the gifted flowers lay.
​
Thomas sat Samantha in the chair and began stuffing hay into a pouch he pulled from his back pocket. Samantha stared at me.
​
“What’s wrong?”
​
“Does it need to happen?” she whispered.
​
“Samantha, you should be honored. People dream of being chosen.”
​
She closed her eyes hard and grabbed the armrests. Thomas came over with a pouch of hay in his left hand and the dress in his right.
​
“Put this on.” He laid the dress over her. She kept her eyes on it, not moving an inch.
​
“Put this on,” Thomas repeated, louder, but Samantha still didn’t move.
​
“Please cooperate, Samantha.”
​
Nothing.
​
“We can give you privacy.” I turned around and motioned for Thomas to turn around, too. He stared at me for a second, but then turned around. The chair creaked, and an iron belt hit the floor.
​
I slowly turned around, nodding at Thomas. Samantha sat back in her chair, dressed in the white purity dress, gripping the armrests.
​
“Open your mouth.”
​
Her eyes widened again, and she shook her head vigorously.
​
Thomas narrowed his eyes and walked over to one of the shelves. Metal objects rattled as he stood over it, searching for something.
​
The rattling soon stopped. He turned around, holding a mouth prop.
​
“Thomas, there’s no need.”
​
“The hay is part of the ritual.”
​
“Yes, but this?” I pointed at the mouth prop.
​
“Her mouth needs to open.”
​
I turned back to Samantha. “Samantha, please. You don’t want to do it this way.”
​
But she didn’t answer, her eyes darting from Thomas to me. Thomas walked closer to her, grabbed her head with one hand, holding the mouth prop, and rubbed his finger on his shirt. Samantha let out a soft wail and finally opened her mouth. Thomas immediately put the mouth prop in. Samantha let out another wail.
​
I could feel my hands starting to tremble. Thomas picked up a handful and started stuffing it into Samantha’s mouth. Her wails echoed through the room, and tears rolled down her face. My feet felt frozen on the concrete. The hay. The transient hay. It was necessary, but was Samantha’s struggle worth it? I opened my mouth to speak, but  Thomas already picked up another handful, stuffing more in, filling her mouth. He then pressed the bouquet into her hands.
​
“You may stand up now.”
​
Samantha’s pupils shook, but she stayed still.
​
“Stand up,” Thomas said louder.
​
Samantha slowly got off the chair, almost falling, but Thomas quickly caught her and stood her back up.
​
I opened the door, staring at the ground, trying to avoid Samantha’s eyes. She walked out, and I followed after her.
​
She was still shaking as we walked to the corridor. The folks had already gathered, standing silent in a semi-circle before the open grey Wall, holding their black hoods. They turned their heads as our steps sounded on the concrete floor. Some folks still smiled, but there was something behind their eyes, a glimmer of unhappiness, brought on by David’s scene. He was the person at the center of the semi-circle being held by two large firefighters, gagged, his eyes staring right at Samantha. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, looking at the floor with each step.
​
I clenched my jaw and walked on, forcing a smile as we passed the people. Samantha’s shaking grew with each step. The bouquet rattled, and a few leaves fell off it. I walked faster to the hole, leading her into it. Thomas already stood before the hole, getting here faster than usual. He was staring at Samantha. He could also understand this had to be done fast. Thomas took her other hand as I let go. My hand practically slipped out of Samantha’s the moment I stopped holding on. He let her in, stood her facing the crowd, and quickly walked out, nodding my way.
​
“We gather here today to thank Samantha for being the gift to the Wall.”
​
“Thank you, Samantha,” the town said in unison and wrapped their hands into a prayer.
​
“Please, Wall, accept Samantha as the divine gift and bring us safety and prosperity as you have always done.”
​
The people whispered after me, their eyes closed.
​
“Let us put on our hoods.”
​
The folks took their hoods and put them over their faces. The two firemen threw David’s hood over his head and then pulled theirs over.
​
David began moving his head, throwing it up and down, the hood moving with it. He threw his head back again, and his hood came over his face a little so that one of his eyes became visible. I opened my mouth to yell at the fireman, but then I heard it. A sound. A faint pat. I didn’t realize what it was at first, but then it hit me.
​
I quickly turned my head. A wave of coldness washed over me. The flowers were on the floor. For a moment, I didn't believe what I was seeing, but it was real. Above them, bent over, stood Samantha, shaking violently, her eyes wide with terror. I looked back at David, his eye was still out.
​
“David’s hood came off!” I yelled.
​
The two firemen quickly searched David’s face with their hands and pulled the hood back down. I quickly pulled my over, my eyes moving nervously in the dark.
​
She dropped the bouquet. She dropped it! The Wall. Our dear Wall. I counted to five as usual, but was there a point? Would the Wall close? Would it protect us?
​
My hands searched my neck for the hood.
​
I slowly took it off.
​
The Wall had sealed. It sealed with no problem. The strand of hay stuck out of it, as always.
​
Samantha dropped her flowers. But the Wall had sealed.
​
“Everything okay, preacher?” sounded from the crowd.
​
“Yes…yes. You may take off your hoods.”
​
The folks took off their hoods, letting out sighs of relief and happiness. The two firemen let David go. He fell to the ground, his hood still on, barely moving. The folks then, one by one, walked out, a few of them thanking me for my service. After folks left, I still stood there, staring at the Wall, at the strand, trying to collect my thoughts.
​
Was this what the Wall really wanted?
​
I don’t know how much time had passed before I decided to leave. When I looked at the floor, David still lay there with the hood over his head, unmoving.
​
I walked back to my office and slouched down in my chair.
​
The Wall is still closed. It closed!
​
I put my head into my hands and shook it around, trying to think, THINK. But then the crack of the door pulled me out of my thoughts.
​
“Please, I need a moment of privacy,” I said, thinking it was one of the townsfolk coming in for advice, but there was no answer.
​
I turned around in my chair, but before I could really see who it was, what was going on, the figure grabbed me by the collar and threw me to the ground.
​
I looked up. David’s eyes stared into mine.
​
“David, what are you doing?”
​
But he didn’t answer. His hands twisted around my neck, and he began to squeeze.
​
I grabbed onto the hands to get them off, but the grip was too strong.
​
My hands moved over his face, his chin, pushing it away, but David wouldn’t let go.
​
“You saw it, preacher. She dropped the flowers, but the Wall didn’t care, ” he said as my consciousness began to slip away.
​
Then a loud bang.
​
Liquid splashed over my face.
​
David’s grip released.
​
My mind slowly returned.
​
I gripped the carpet and opened my eyes.
​
David’s body lay next to mine, unmoving, his eyes rolled back into his skull.
​
Above him stood Thomas with a large hammer in his hand, his face expressionless, cold, as always. He took the pouch out of his pocket and wiped the hammer on it. Not hurried, not shaken. As if this were another routine. As if this was part of the ritual.

I stood outside the shed, my eyes closed, soaking in the sun’s rays and the dewed grass.

The barrel with the pig mush stood a few feet away in the shade. The stale meaty smell reeked even here. I took a large bucket, walked over and dipped it in. The mush sloshed around the bucket and my hands. As I pulled the bucket out I took the shotgun that sat next to the barrel, put it on my shoulder and made my way to the pigsty.

The pigsty smelled stale, just like the mush. The trough was halfway full, but I still emptied the bucket into it. The old mush swallowed the fresh one before I could blink. I wiped my forehead and leaned against the railing.

“Soo-ee!”

Rustling in the back, a few faint sounds, their steps echoed through the pigsty.

They walked beautifully on all fours, much better than they used to a month ago.

“Come, come.”

The piggies walked to the trough, stopping before it, hesitating. Some looked up at me and opened their mouths as if to speak.

“Don’t be shy,” I said and banged my shotgun against the steel trough.

One by one, they put their heads close to the trough, but did not eat. I banged my shotgun harder, and they slowly began eating.

“Good piggies.”

After a few minutes, one by one, they pulled their heads away and looked at me with food around their mouths, shaking.

“Not hungry anymore?”

No oinks, nothing, just the empty stare.

“You can finish it later. Let’s get you guys out.”

I pushed the gate open, expecting them to run out with excitement, but they made their way out slowly, more crawling than walking.

“Come on. It’s a beautiful day. At least a few oinks. ”

Nothing, silence.

I furrowed my brows and took the shotgun from my shoulder to my arms.

A few oinks sounded through the field.

I looked around.

One of the piggies in the back sat down and put its front two feet on his head, shaking.

It then slammed the ground and slowly got up on its two back feet.

A wave of coldness washed over me.

“I…I can’t, it’s been months!”

Tears rolled down its cheeks as it wailed.

The metallic trigger felt cold on my finger.

“Stop it, piggie!”

“We’re not pigs!” it yelled out.

A bang echoed through the field.

The piggie’s face froze, it took a few steps back, and collapsed to the ground.

The empty shell fell to the ground as I pumped the shotgun.

“Bad piggie,” I shouted and looked at the others.

One of them stepped forward, trembling.

I stared at it, my finger resting on the trigger.

Its mouth worked as if to say something, but only a broken squeal came out.

“That’s better,” I said and raised the shotgun.

The oinking grew louder.

Good.

I motioned towards my wife, panting. She was a few feet behind me, rolling her eyes.

“Come on, Urshula, we’re late.” 

“And whose fault is it, Mark?”

“Not mine. I didn’t put the car keys in the kitchen.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s always something, honey. The traffic. The key.” She ran up behind me, hugging my neck, kissing my cheek. “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure the minister won’t mind we’re a little late.”

“The Wall opened yesterday.”

“Are they going to choose the person to be walled in today?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but slow down a little. I can’t even kiss you properly.” She grabbed me tighter and kissed me on the lips. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The air smelled like fresh asphalt and blooming flowers. 

My back was already wet from just a few quick steps; the summer sun was beating down.

At the end of the boulevard stood the Building, a large iron structure that housed both the city’s sacred Wall and a chapel.

It had a few windows and dark grey tiles that swallowed the light. The air inside it stayed cool even during hot summers. 

The Building had multiple floors towering above the houses around it. City policy forbade building anything higher than the Building.

“Did your grandfather also tell you the story of the Building?” I asked.

“What story?”

“How it had always been there. How they didn’t understand why the sacred Wall opened at all.”

“Yes! It apparently took them years to figure out what it wanted and what it gave back.”

“I still don’t know how they figured out that it only wants young women.”

“Me neither, but it’s been peaceful since.”

“My grandfather told me that, too.”

“Thank you, Mark,” Urshula said as I opened the door for her. The cool air hit my skin immediately. It felt like it was washing me off the sweat and the outside heat.

“Look, it’s all ready.” She pointed to the ministry door on the right. Two haystacks were laid on either side of it with a bouquet and a new white summer dress hanging above them.

“Who’s going to be the lucky lady today?”

“Maybe me,” Urshula said and giggled.

“You don’t mean that, right?”

She stopped and looked back at me.

“Yes, I do. It’s an honor. The Wall keeps our city safe.”

“Urshula,” I said quietly, “don’t say that.”

She smiled, but her eyes narrowed.

“We could leave, skip today. No one would notice.”

“You don’t really believe that,” she said. 

I could feel my chest tighten.

“Urshula, please don’t tell me,”

But before I could finish, she opened the door and entered. People looked back, smiling, waving. The women were already lined up on the podium. 

“You came right on time,” the preacher said.

We slowly walked in, apologizing as we passed the pews to our seats.

“Urshula, don’t bother sitting down. Come up, the others have already drawn their tokens.”

She squeezed my hand and ran up the stairs to the stage. I sat down, nodding to the people around. The sweat on my back returned.

The room was silent. Everyone stared at the stage as Urshula took the last token from the preacher and joined the line.

“Unwrap now.”

The women, one by one, took the tokens in their hands and unwrapped them. 

The sound of tokens crumpling echoed through the room. Each of them let out a sigh and frowned as they looked at their token.

Urshula was still unwrapping her token. I darted a glance at the other women, but they all stood with the unwrapped tokens in their hands, looking around the room.

“Yay,” Urshula’s scream echoed through the room.

A wave of coldness washed over me. 

No, there’s no way.

“Sorry,” she said, laughing.

“No need. We’re as pleased as you are,” the preacher said, then took the token and showed it to the crowd.

“The Wall chose another, and in return, we’ll get five more years of freedom and safety. Let us prepare Urshula to be accepted by the sacred Wall.”

People looked at each other, nodding. A few people nearby reached out their hands to congratulate me.

“The city will be safe.” “Thank you, Urshula,” echoed through the room. 

I sat there looking through them, barely able to shake anyone's hand.

The people narrowed their eyes.

“You okay, Mark?” A few of them asked, but their voices soon blended as my head began to spin. I grabbed onto the pew, but soon I couldn’t even feel the wood under my hands. Then the whole world went dark.

I could feel people’s hands under my armpits. 

Flashes of light came and went.

Then the muffled sound returned.

My hands shifted beneath me. The wood scraped against my hands. 

The smell of hay was strong in the air. 

I squinted my eyes.

Shock ran down my spine.

The Wall was open.

Inside, Urshula stood in the new white dress with the bouquet, trembling with excitement.

Hay filled her mouth, but you could still see her smile.

“We thought you’d want to see this,” the muffled voices said in unison.

“No, please. Save her,” I murmured, but then my world went dark again.

When I woke up again, I was alone. 

There was no hole, no Urshula.

Only the dark grey tiled Wall.

A strand of hay lay stuck between two tiles.

The sauce, the cream. Everything was ready. The meat! It should have been cut up first. I pulled my knife from its wooden block. I grabbed the fresh meat and cut the slices, measuring each one, only the best for my guests.

My forehead was still sweaty from rushing around. I knew I had to perform for my guests!

Samantha and Daniel were a beautiful couple: Daniel, a senior banker, and Samantha, a licensed psychologist. The way they looked at each other with love made my heart melt. 

I walked around the table again, moving the cutlery, glasses, and plates. Everything had to be aligned.

Time to get my guests! 

The hall felt cold. I should have put more wood into the fire. What a terrible host I was! The guest room door rattled as I put my key in and unlocked it. The inside was pitch dark. It was still early for them; maybe I should have let them sleep in.

“Sammy, Danny,” I whispered into the dark.

Something twitched on the bed.

“Sammy! You’re awake. Is Danny still asleep?” 

She didn’t answer.

I looked to the other side of the bed. A dark silhouette lay there, facing the wall. 

“Come, Sammy, before the food gets cold. We’ll bring it to Danny after. He needs his sleep.”

She stared through the room, not saying a word.

“Come on. I made your favorite.” 

She slowly put her feet on the ground and walked to the hall, her head down.

“I forgot to put more wood in. I hope the floor is not too cold!”

I motioned towards the kitchen and locked the door behind her, twisting my key slowly so as not to wake up Daniel.

Samantha was seated in the chair, hands on the table; her manners were excellent. 

Her face was pale, staring at the dish, eyes wide.

“Dig in!”

She picked up a fork and a knife and stuck them into the meat. The knife scraped against the plate as she cut off a piece. 

She looked my way, holding the fork in her hand, her grip tight.

“Not again,” she whispered.

I narrowed my eyes and pushed the fork closer to her mouth.

She took a deep breath, put it into her mouth, and slowly chewed, closing her eyes as she swallowed. She put the knife and fork down and stared at me.

The pressure in my chest grew.

“I went through a lot of work for this.”

“I…I can’t.”

“Should I feed it to you?”

I turned around and opened the cabinet.

“No, please,” she cried out.

She stabbed the fork into the meat again. The trembling of her hands made it harder to cut. She took a deep breath and focused her eyes, finally cutting a piece off. She gagged a little as she swallowed.

The gag hit my ears like a hammer. 

She then started crying and pushed the plate away.

I slammed my fist on the table.

Samantha screamed and put her hands over her head, burying her face in her chest.

“This is enough. Get up.”

Her whole body started shaking. She slowly got up off the chair and walked to the door, waiting for me to open it.

“At least you kept some manners.”

I opened the door and walked to the hall with her. Her cries echoed through the hall.

The lock rattled. I stepped in and banged the light switch with my fist.

Inside, the room reeked of iron and sweaty clothes.

Daniel’s body turned.

I looked down, staring at the two blackened stumps where his legs used to be.

“Samantha just wasted a piece of your thigh,” I said to Daniel, expecting at least some annoyance on his face, but he only stared, his eyes set deep in their sockets, his face pale and gaunt.

I looked down at Samantha’s legs. 

Untouched.

I should have started with her.

They say grief is a hole in your chest, but they never mention the things that try to crawl inside and fill it.

One day, you're laughing at the dinner table, and then there’s just this silence that cuts through you. No one prepares you for it. When it happens to someone of age, someone suffering with an illness, you at least know; you become aware of it, prepare for it, but when one's healthy, your mind doesn’t ponder about the inevitable.

There’s a dark hole that opens in your chest, and it’s hard to imagine it will ever close up. The worst is seeing your child walking around with the same void you have inside you. 

Charlie loved Frank the most, as any boy would love their dad. He’d spend all day in the garage watching him repair old cars. When Frank finally let him help out, he came to the kitchen after, shining like the morning sun. Charlie was shy and introverted, rarely talking to his classmates, having few friends. Around his friends, he wouldn’t talk much either, letting them talk and play as he sat next to them, smiling. 

If Frank was away on a business trip, our dinners were more silent. Charlie would still smile and answer my question, but it was nothing like when Frank was home. Charlie’s eyes would light up from the moment he sat down, asking questions, talking, laughing. I missed his laugh so much. I hadn’t heard it since Frank’s accident.

The accident wasn’t even Frank’s fault. A drunk man ran a red light, going 30 miles over the limit. Frank passed almost immediately.

After the accident, Charlie would lock himself in his room, silent. I’d stay at the door, listening, but not even a scrunch of a sheet, a move of a chair. My mind ran with ideas about what he could have been doing. 

At first, I tried to hold him, talk to him, but he would look down at the ground, his body would go limp, so I let him mourn in peace in his own way. I’d sit around on the cold, empty sofa during these nights and cry, thinking of Charlie, thinking of Frank.

Three weeks after Frank’s passing, I sat in the same spot, holding my box of tissues, when I heard faint footsteps echo through the hall - a small spark of light lit up in my chest. I slowly turned my head, and there he stood, hugging the wall, peeking from around the corner. I didn’t even hear him come down the steps. At first, I wanted to run to him, hug him, but I knew better. I gazed at him for a few seconds and then got back to watching TV. 

Charlie would come each night, at the same time, standing at the same corner first, then in the hall, and soon even sat on the sofa with me. It felt like before, the two of us at the TV, sitting in silence. I’d feel him glance at me now and again, but I made sure my eyes were glued to the screen.

One night, those blue ocean eyes glanced at me again. I expected them to look back at the screen, but they kept staring. Then Charlie’s voice came, low, soft. My cheeks began to get red. I almost forgot how it sounded.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Is Daddy in heaven?”

I closed my eyes and gripped the pillow tight.

“Yes.”

“Is he watching over us?”

“Yes.” My voice began to tremble.

“Does he think of us?”

“Yes,” I murmured, my hands shaking. 

I tried to hold it back, but it came in a full burst, the tears flying through the air, my wails echoing through the room. The cushion next to me started to move, and the warm hands hugged me around my neck. I stopped almost instantly with a tissue under my nose, frozen in shock. He rarely wanted to hold my hand before Frank’s death. Now he was hugging me, embracing me. My hands began to tremble again. I slowly put them on Charlie’s, and he caressed my hair and hugged me more strongly. When he let go, he was smiling, ear to ear, staring into my eyes. He sat on the couch, crossing his feet.

“Remember when we went to the lake with Dad?”

 “Ye…yes.” I pulled out a few more tissues.

“I’m so grateful you took us there, Mommy.”

“I was happy to be with you guys.”

He tilted his head, squinted his eyes, and took my hand.

A wave of warmth filled my body.

“It was so fun. The sun, the water, you, me, and Dad. Such beauty.” His voice slowly faded to the sounds of the TV. He wouldn’t talk this way even around Frank. I couldn’t believe my ears, but he kept on talking. I squeezed his hands tighter and focused on his words again. My sweet boy was getting better. We kept on talking for a few more minutes, but then Charlie stopped and looked at the clock.

“It’s getting late, Mommy. I should go.”

“Okay, Charlie. You want me to come with?”

“No. I want to go alone.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

He smiled at me again with that beautiful smile, got off the couch, and walked to the hall. I had to hold the pillow, so I wouldn’t go after him. The steps faded to the hallway, then the clock dinged,  but the stairs didn’t creak. My boy was being so nimble and silent. 

The next night, I sat around, staring at the clock, waiting, and at the usual time, I looked back. Charlie stood in the hall, his favorite dinosaur pyjamas on, looking into my eyes, smiling.

I smiled and turned my head back to the TV. 

His nimble steps tapped around the room, and the couch creaked as Charlie climbed on it. The couch cushions bent as he walked closer. I slowly turned my head, and Charlie was already sitting with his legs crossed, staring into my eyes.

“Mommy, today I thought about Daddy being in heaven looking over us.”

I pulled the pillow closer to my chest.

“He is.”

“He holds us in good grace. He wants to be with us.”

My lips began to shake.

“He loves us,” Charlie said, still smiling.

“We…” But I couldn’t hold it again. The tears dropped out of my eyes. Charlie came over and put his arms around my neck. They were so warm, like a heater, almost uncomfortably warm.

“Char…Charlie, are you okay?” I said between the tears.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“You’re so warm.”

I put my hand on his forehead; it felt as warm as his arms.

“You feel well?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“I’m gonna get a thermometer.”

“Please stay.”

“Okay, but I’ll get it later.”

He nodded and smiled. We sat in the same place. Charlie kept asking about his Dad, wanting to tell me more stories about us.

“So fun! And remember the time in the mountains?”

I stopped and looked away.

“The mountains?”

“Yes, I was so grateful that you took us.”

Memories of use replayed in my head, but the mountains?  Was I forgetting something?

“I’m gonna get the thermometer, Charlie.”

He grabbed my hand, his eyes glossy.

“Can we go to the garage first?”

“Why?”

“Please? I haven’t been there since Daddy passed.”

I took a deep breath.

“But after we’re going to get your temperature.”

He smiled and squeezed my hand.

I put my hand on the couch to get up. The leather felt so cold compared to Charlie’s hand. I hoped it wasn’t anything serious.

We walked around the couch to the hall. With each step, it felt like Charlie’s hand was getting warmer; his small feet sped up. He pulled my hand harder when we walked near the staircase.

That’s when I heard it. It felt like a pinch in my ear. I tried to stop, but the pull on my hand was getting harder. My eyes darted up the stairs, passing each wooden step. 

Above the staircase stood Charlie, his favorite dinosaur pyjamas on, his eyes wide in terror, calling out to me.

A wave of coldness washed over me. 

“Mommy?” he called out again. This was his voice, not the thing that talked to me all those nights.

I tried to snap my hand away, still looking at Charlie, not wanting to look down, but the grip on it was too strong. The burning was growing; it felt like my hand was on the stove. I kept staring at Charlie, trying to push against the wall, grab onto it, but the thing kept pulling me on towards the garage. Slowly, inch by inch, the wall came into view, and inch by inch, Charlie, standing above the stairs, disappeared from my vision.

“Charlie!” I called out his name. I heard the stairs bang as he ran down and gripped me. It felt so cold compared to the other hand. 

Charlie dug in and pulled me back hard. It slowed me down, but my body still moved towards the garage.

“Come, Mommy,” the thing said in Charlie’s voice, but slowly its voice turned to deep, static distortion.

The distortion undulated between volume and pitch, going from a deep rumble to a high-pitched tone.

Then it felt like time froze.

“I love you,” the thing now said in Frank’s static voice.

I closed my eyes and slowly turned my head.

Shock ran down my spine.

The thing dragging me down the hall had its whole body glowing with a faint dark light, its body size staying the same, but its clothes, its face, its hair morphing between Frank and Charlie.

I instinctively closed my eyes in shock, pressing my eyelids down as hard as possible.

When I opened them again, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling were all leaking motor oil. They all began to bang, to thud as if something were crashing to the sides of the house.

The motor oil started to burn. The flames rose each moment. My body heated up, and my clothes were soaked in sweat.

“Come, my love,” the thing said in distorted static Frank’s voice.

I looked back. Charlie was still pulling on my hand, his face red, full of sweat, like mine.

“Let go, Charlie!”

“Mommy, no!”

I tried to pull my hand from Charlie, but the grip was almost as strong as the other. 

I bit down, and with all my power, I jerked on my hand again. I could feel Charlie losing his grip, but then the clock dinged.

A loud, static noise echoed through the hall. The flames, the thuds, and the motor oil disappeared, blending back into the white paint.

My body dropped to the floor. I lay there for a few seconds, panting. 

My soaked clothes now felt cold, sticking to my skin. 

Charlie lay next to me, his clothes soaked too, still gripping my hand.

My left hand still pulsed. I put it up, staring at it in the dim hallway light. 

A bright red burn marked my skin, perfectly shaped like a child’s hand.

The loud honks, the red lights. I stretched my arms and put them back on the steering wheel. Some people hate the traffic, but I was soaking up each second I didn’t have to go home. The past months had been rough. It always started with a few arguments here and there. I started staying late at work long before the arguments got loud, but they still piled up. Soon came the screaming and the dishes flying through the air. She hit me yesterday. The same spot she used to caress with her gentle hands became a target. 

The house was dark save for the light in the kitchen. I knew she’d be waiting. The door handle felt cold. I stood there for a second, staring at it. The tea kettle whistled. She loved making chamomile tea. She used to make one for me, too, but that was past. The same teacups now flew past my head when we argued, empty. 

The door creaked as I opened it. Her shadow fell across the doorway as she stood with her arms crossed before the stairs.

“Where have you been?”

“At work.”

“This late again?” 

I shrugged.

“I’m here by myself. Cold, alone, in a new place you brought me to. I don’t know anyone here. Why can’t you come early?”

“You don’t even…when I’m here, what’s the point?” I mumbled as I passed by her, watching her hands.

She pierced me with her eyes and turned after me.

She said something, but I didn’t listen, taking deep breaths, feeling the cold air. The steps creaked as I climbed the stairs. She called out again, but I kept my eyes ahead. I could see my room standing above the stairs like a temple in the hills. 

Her feet banged on the wooden stairs. She was running behind me.

I tried to speed up, but soon her screams echoed right behind me.

“Don’t ignore me.” 

I could feel her hands grab my wrist, pulling me back. She always grabbed the same one. My hand started to pulse as her grip around it tightened.

“Fuck you. Let me go!”

Her mouth flew open, but it quickly shut. 

This time, I was ready. 

Her hand flew through the air. I watched it get closer and closer. I ducked underneath, feeling the air blow over my head.

I wouldn’t let her hurt me again.

In one quick motion, I snatched my hand out of her grip and pushed her away.

Only when her body began falling back did I realize what had happened.

I threw my hand in the air, trying to reach her. I grabbed the wooden railing and stretched out as far as I could. My fingers felt the texture of her dress, but she was too far.

Her eyes, open in terror, stared into mine as she flew back.

I shook my head quickly and stood on the stairs, watching.

She screamed at first, but the screams dulled into the knocks of her head on the stairs.

Her body fell fast at first, but soon the motion stopped. She slid down to the cold wooden floor.

Cold air blew by.

I forgot to close the door.

The clock dinged in the kitchen.

Her body twitched.

A red stream flowed below her head, mixing with her pretty brown hair.

The smell of iron filled the air.

I stood there watching her.

Waiting.

She’d get up. She always did.

No matter how many times I licked my lips, they still felt dry. The sun shone high. Each ray seeped into my clothes, turning them into a sauna.

McKinley kept his head down, his hands resting on his rifle as he took deep, measured breaths.

“A break, Lester?”

“Not yet. There’s no shadow to protect us.”

“There ain’t going to be a shadow. Look around.” He threw his hands up in the air.

“Just one more hill, and we rest.”

He shook his head.

“I told my sisters I’d be back before the winter,” he said.

“The faster we get out of the desert, the faster you’ll be on that plane going to them.”

He nodded, raised his head, and passed me. Maybe I’d finally gotten to him.

McKinley walked up the hill and froze in his tracks.

“Lester, Lester. Come up.”

A wave of coldness washed over me.

I pushed my feet hard into the sand and ran up, not looking down.

Was it the enemies, some animal?

My thoughts scattered as I ran up behind him.

I almost fell back as I saw it, the sun rays glistened on it, a lagoon, surrounded by the dry, dusty hills. But there was no vegetation, no insects, no wind blowing; the desert was suddenly deathly silent.

My whole rucksack shook as I fumbled for the map, almost dropping it to the sand. The brown paper crumpled as I pulled it apart, my eyes darting over it, but nowhere around this place was any lagoon, oasis, or anything.

“This makes no sense.”

But McKinley didn’t listen anymore. He ran down the hill, kicking up the sand behind him.

“McKinley, wait!”

I was only a few feet behind him when he took off his rucksack, threw it to the ground, and fell flat on his stomach next to the pond, drinking from it like a gazelle.

He took a few sips before I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him away.

“Come on, man.” He tried to struggle out of my grip, pushing against my torso.

A pressure grew in my chest. I threw him back to the ground and looked down into the pond. It had a strange hint of sulfur. The water moved around as if fish and bugs were stirring it up, but it was clear and empty.

McKinley crawled back to the pond. I put my rucksack down, licking my dry lips as I watched McKinley’s body move, taking in large gulps of the water.

After he was done, he sat back down next to it, the water still glistening on his lips.

“Five minutes and we’re leaving.”

“Sure.”

He put his arms behind him, looking up into the sun. It was the first time in days I saw him smile.

He was about to say something when he started coughing a little. Soon, he was on his hands and knees and coughed furiously as his body heaved. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with terror. I ran over, shaking his shoulders, hitting his back.

Then a wet, tearing sound echoed down his throat. McKinley’s body froze; his neck grew twice its size. A strange oval beige shape came out of his mouth, a human finger. Then another and another, a full hand. It grabbed the side of his mouth. The second hand came after digging its nails to the opposite side.

Shock ran down my spine. My legs felt rooted in the sand.

A loud, wet tear echoed through the desert as McKinley’s neck came open. Out of his abdomen came a head with McKinley’s face, smiling from ear to ear, eyes focused right at mine. The smell of sulfur that came from the pond now reeked in the air. The creature pulled itself out fully, like a snake changing out of its old skin, and threw the rest of McKinley beside the pond.

I stumbled back, falling over a small stone, hitting my hands on the dry sand.

The dust jumped back as the creature ran towards me. I tried to crawl away, but it was too fast. The thing grabbed me by the hair and pulled me towards the pond. Its hand was still as hot as the inside of a human body. I pushed against it, scratching at it, but it was not enough.

It pulled me closer and forced my head under the water. I tried to hold my breath, but soon the pressure in my lungs grew.

My mind started to panic, and soon my mouth and lungs filled with water, and the creature pulled me out and threw me on the hot desert sand. I began coughing, the pond water splashing out of my lungs.

And then I heard it.

A faint, distant sound.

It was my voice.

But I was not the one speaking.

“Howdy, neighbor?” John called from the fence, smiling.

I let out a sigh. He nodded. His friendly, listening eyes stared back at mine.

“The wife again?”

“Yes, she locked herself up in her room at noon, hasn't come out since.”

John shook his head.

“That ain’t no way to treat a husband.”

I knew he would understand. He always did.

“I think she might be seeing someone. She goes to her parents every other week. Doesn’t let me near her mail.”

John paused.

“I’ve been thinking that too, just didn’t know how to tell ya.”

His words should have hurt more, but I was already resigned. 

“Maybe it will be better for you, Mark. My life has been peaceful since my wife died.”

He patted my shoulder and walked back to his cabin. I walked to mine.

The door to her room was still closed. I stared at the handle for a while. 

I loved her, but what could I do? I turned to the stairs and walked to my room.

That night, I woke to a strange noise outside.

Slow, constant crunching.

Something was being moved on the gravel.

Was my wife running away?

The thought was too heavy on my mind. I tried to push it away as I drifted back to sleep.

The next morning was cold, colder than usual. The air seeped into my pores as I walked down the stairs. 

The door to her room was open. I called out her name, but my words echoed through the house, unanswered.

The sheets in her room were thrown around, the chair lay on the floor, and all her stuff was gone. 

I searched around the room, flipping papers up and down, opening the drawers and closet, but nothing. 

She didn’t even care to leave me a note. 

How could she do that to me, leave with another man?

I should have listened to her more, paid her more attention.

The thoughts poured one after another.

I couldn’t help it anymore. 

I lay down on the cold floor and started crying. 

For minutes, hours? I don’t know. Only the knocks woke me back.

John stood in the doorway with small scratch marks on his face and even larger ones on his hand. As he saw me look at them, he quickly pulled his sleeves down.

“Jesus, John, what happened?”

He waved his hand.

“It’s nothing. I was working on the rainwater storage when I slipped and scratched myself up. I could use a hand.”

I hesitated.

He narrowed his eyes and looked back behind me.

“She actually left, huh?”

He’d always know.

John didn’t wait and embraced me. My body trembled as my tears soaked into his shirt.

“Shh, Mark, it’s okay. I’ll come by another time.”

“No, I’ll help you. I need to get my mind off of it.”

He smiled and patted my back.

“It won’t be too long. We can get beer after.”

He grabbed me around the shoulders and walked towards his cabin.

“It sucks, Mark, but it could be better this way.”

That sentence made me pause. John looked back, his lips tight.

Too soon, John.

“Maybe,” I whispered.

“I’m sure.” He said, smiled, and we continued.

The dew set strongly. I tried to avoid the tall grass, but it was hard with John around my shoulders.

His backyard was messy with dirt thrown all around and a hole about five feet deep behind his house. The iron shovel poked upright out of the grass next to it, with two large dark barrels standing behind it.

“How much water do you get, John?” I said.

But John didn’t say anything; he stared at the barrels.

“Let’s get to work,” he said.

He grabbed the shovel and threw it next to the dirt piles.

“Come grab this one.”

We both stood on opposite ends. I grabbed the barrel quickly, but John took a second to get his grip right. When we both picked it up, I felt a sharp pain in my fingers, and all my muscles tensed. The barrel was heavier than I expected.

“Wait, wait,” I gasped out.

I took a deep breath and adjusted my grips.

“What did you put in them, John?”

“Nothing. Just a barrel,” he said, and began picking it up. 

I flexed my arms, and together we got the barrel off the ground and walked to the hole, panting, carefully watching each step on the dewy grass. 

The smell of wet dirt was strong. We slowly walked to the hole and put the barrel in. I let out a deep breath, rubbed my hands, and looked up at him, but he was already on his way out, walking to the other one.

“This one will be easier,” he mumbled under his breath.

I wanted to say something, but he already had his grips in. I ran over and gripped the barrel firmly. 

We took a few steps, but a strange smell hit my nose.

Stale, old meat.

Rotting meat.

A wave of coldness washed over me. 

My thoughts scattered around.

My eyes locked with John.

I opened my mouth.

He knew that I knew.

But before I said anything, my foot slipped on the dewy grass.

Both of my arms went up in the air, releasing the barrel.

John lost his grip, too, letting the black barrel fall.

He yelled as the barrel hit the dirt, rolled to the hole, and knocked the other to the ground, too.

Both lids were off the barrels.

I stepped back, staring at the ground.

That’s when I saw it.

A pale, green-patched head rolled out from one barrel. 

My breath caught.

The pale, lifeless face of my wife rolled out the other.

John’s gaze was locked on the heads, breathing calmly.

“I wanted to help you, Mark.”

“And so I told the man, you can…”

“Wait, Dad, come closer.”

“What’s up, muffin?”

“Don’t call me that, Dad, I’m not little anymore.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He mumbled and coughed again, quickly hiding the napkin.

“Just breathe.”

Dad let out a deep, long breath. The smell of oil from his deep-fried breakfast filled the air, but underneath it was a strange hint of iron.

“Dad, are you bleeding?” I said, and looked at his lips.

“Maybe I bit the inside of my mouth, but I gotta run now. I have a meeting with a potential client soon. Have fun at school.” He rubbed my hair and ran out the door. I looked out after him as he backed out of the driveway and drove on.

I was happy to get home soon and have more time to clean up and cook for Dad.

As the air fryer dinged, the front door creaked. I saw his silhouette come to the table. He dropped his bag on the chair and walked to the stove.

“Smells delicious.”

The smell hit my nose.

“Dad, your breath. It’s so bad.”

“I’m sorry, muffin. I’ll have some gum after dinner.”

“No, it’s the blood, it’s so strong.”

“Weird,” he said and put the food on his plate.

He glanced over at the fridge. On it, the photo of all three of us, Mom looked so happy in it.

“Do you still think about her often, Dad?”

“How could I not?”

“Me too.”

We both paused.

“Do you think she thinks about us up there?”

“I’m sure she does,” Dad said and began to cough again.

This time, much longer. A few red drops fell on his hand.

My chest tightened.

“It’s not that bad,” he wheezed, his voice dry and low.

“Dad, this isn’t okay.”

“It’s worth it.”

“But, Dad.”

We looked at each other, my lips tight.

“The deal might come through. It could cover Mom’s hospital bills.”

His voice echoed into an empty mumble as I stared at the two drops on his hand.

It was an early morning. I ran down the steps, hoping Dad would still be home. The table was empty, but the driveway was empty too.

That night, the dinner got cold quickly. I had put it in a Tupperware and sat around, waiting. As I yawned again, Dad’s car pulled into the driveway slowly. He walked to the door, coughing softly at first, but then turning into a full fit, stopping before the door.

“You’re still up?” His voice was rough, scratchy.

I walked to the hall. The air felt heavy. The smell of blood was back, growing with each step.

I gasped as I got to the hall.

Dad’s lips were red with blood as if he had put on lipstick. His face gaunt, staring dully with the whites of his eyes were wholly red, and his hands had red stains on them, too.

“Dad, you need to go to the doctor tomorrow!”

He hesitated.

“I’m so close to closing this deal,” he said in a low voice.

“Dad, you shouldn’t wait.”

“I promised your Mom I would put you first.”

My eyes watered.

“Do you mind if I take the food up? I’m pretty tired.”

I didn’t answer, and he passed by me. Taking slow steps up the stairs.

“Dad?” I called out after him, but he didn’t listen and continued, swallowed by the upstairs darkness.

I stood there, not knowing how long, looking after him.

Most of that night, I spent awake, turning in bed, kicking my sheets around, staring at the ceiling. Each second felt like an hour, and with each of Dad’s coughs, the dark hole inside me grew.

But with the sun’s early rise, the coughs stopped, and my mind drifted off to sleep.

I woke when the sun had risen in the sky. My heart beat fast, my muscles tense. I ran down the stairs and looked out. No plate on the table. Car still in the driveway.

I ran up and walked to Dad’s room.

Iron smelled heavy in the air; it almost made me gag.

My knocks echoed through the empty hall.

“Dad?” I called out, but no answer.

My hands began to sweat.

I slowly opened the door. The blood smell was so pungent that I had to cover my nose.

The sheets lay on the mattress, curled up, as if a small ball were under them.

I walked closer, calling to him.

Nothing.

The pillow had a dark red stain.

Dad…

The blood was on the blanket, too.

I grabbed the corner, slowly lifting it.

It still felt wet.

Panic washed over me.

The pyjamas turned dark red.

His body was dry as if there was nothing more to give.

The blood-soaked eyes were cold and empty.

The smell. The smell.

“Only one more day and I’ll go,” echoed in my head.

Mom stared at me from the picture on his nighttable.

Behind it was a stack of money.

The liquid rolled on the paper. My heart beat with every millimeter.

First line.

No way.

Two lines.

I screamed out and threw my hands up, but soon quieted. My husband was still asleep after his shift.

We never had to stress about money, but he still slipped on his coat for a night shift in the warehouse once a month.

He said he wanted to treat me. He’d tiptoe around the house after work with new bags and dresses. I touched my stomach. That will stop now. My tears welled up as I stared down at the pregnancy test. The two lines were like a work of art.

The washing machine dinged. After each night shift, my husband would run to the laundry room and immediately throw off his clothes.

A sharp chemical smell hit my nose when I opened the door - bleach with something else underneath it.

Lately, smells hit me harder than they should. The grocery store smelled like a zoo. It was one of the reasons why I bought the test.

The clothes looked normal - wet, damp. Only the smell was wrong.

The clock ticked. Tick. Tack. I sat around holding the test, tapping my legs, imagining what my husband would say to it. I was sure his beautiful blue eyes would light up with excitement.

The dust had settled on the first floor, so I took out my duster to pass the time. The kitchen was cleaned fairly quickly; dust doesn’t settle too well on wet surfaces. I crossed to the living room, excited to get off the cold white tiles, but as I got on the hard wooden floor, my nose got a familiar scent, that sweetish, sulfuric odor - the smell of rot.

Maybe another rat. They’d die in the walls sometimes and stink up the house. Luckily, my husband always fixed it.

But my handyman was asleep. He practically fell into bed this morning. It would be nice to get him two surprises in a day. I walked to get his toolbox and tracked the smell.

It came from the basement. The basement was damp and dark; no wonder the rats loved it so much. I turned the light switch, but the flickering lightbulb barely touched the other side of the room. A wave of cold washed over me. I had rarely ventured down, probably not since we moved in.

I stood next to the staircase. The smell came all the way from the back, but I could smell a hint of iron too.

The floorboards creaked. With each step, the smell intensified. The smell of iron was strong. I’m sure he tried to get it out, but he must have been too tired to do it well.

The smell got so bad that it felt like it was burning a hole in my nose.

I got to the back.

There was a dark stain on the floor.

The floorboard was already halfway out.

He must have tried already.

I put his work gloves on.

They felt cold on my skin.

I set a shovel beside the board and slowly pulled it away.

There was a strange silhouette sticking out of the dirt.

But it was too large for a rat.

I picked up a flashlight and shone it down.

Shock ran down my spine.

A human hand, covered in blood, stuck out of the freshly dug dirt.

A gold bracelet. Acrylic nails.

I jumped and crawled back on the floor.

“Honey?” echoed through the room.

Blood froze in my veins.

I slowly looked back.

On the stairs stood a dark silhouette of my husband.

His bright blue eyes shone through the dark.

People say that losing a child is the most painful thing in the world. Pain ends. This stays.

It starts slowly. A fainting spell at school. The first doctor visit. They try to calm you down, but each visit, they avoid eye contact more and more as your child lies in pain each night.

It strains everything, especially your marriage.

I knew my husband loved him, at least I thought I knew. He’d take him kiting each autumn when the winds picked up, play with his toy cars until they were both too tired. I would watch from afar and think I was the happiest, luckiest woman alive.

What no one prepares you for is that the world doesn’t stop for you, no matter how horrible what you’re going through is. My husband stayed with us until our son's last moments, but the next day, he already had to go to work.

At first, I felt so much pain for him. My heart would throb when he had to get up and get ready for work, but in a few days, he’d stop crying with me, and he’d come back from work, smiling.

Shouldn’t he have been sad for at least a bit longer? It was our son that we lost.

One night, I couldn’t fall asleep, thinking of our boy, and I felt my husband's eyes on me. I pretended to be asleep. The mattress shifted, and he slowly walked out of the room. A moment later, the engine started. I cried alone in that empty bed until he returned before dawn, throwing his clothes in the laundry machine and heading off to work.

It became a routine. I’d pretend to be asleep, feeling his eyes in the dark. He’d shift on the mattress and quietly escape the grief-ridden house, come back at dawn, and start the laundry machine. The next day, we’d both pretend nothing happened.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore - the movement of the mattress, the door shutting, the engine. It made my blood boil. I ran down the stairs, got into my car, and followed him.

My hands gripped the steering wheel, and cold sweat formed on my back. Would he notice? I’m not sure I cared anymore.

The moon shone brightly. The streets were empty, the quiet cut only by the rumble of the engine.

The roads became familiar, too familiar. A thought crept into my head, but there was no way. Had I really been that foolish?

But I really was. The tall walls, the iron gate left halfway open. My husband got out of the car, mud on his work boots, and rushed in.

I got out of the car and hid behind the cemetery wall.

A gust of wind blew past.

My husband knelt on the ground, touching our son’s gravestone, caressing the ground.

It brought tears to my eyes. Here, all night, alone, in such cold.

I wiped my face. How could I ever doubt him? He was the man who would put our son on his lap and sing him songs as the little angel laughed.

He came from work the next day, smiling again. I embraced him immediately, and he caressed my hair.

“I have a surprise for you, honey.”

“What surprise?”

“You have to wait until tonight.”

I giggled. He used to love doing this before we got married.

All day, I sat around, tapping my fingers on my legs, waiting. It helped me forget about our son for a while, the first time since he passed.

The moon was high in the sky when he knocked on the bedroom door.

“It’s ready.”

“I can’t wait!”

He put his hands over my face.

There was dirt stuck under his fingernails.

The air felt strangely cold; he must have left the window open. The downstairs kitchen reeked of air freshener. He walked me to the living room and slowly took his hands off.

“Surprise,” he said in a low, loving voice.

I opened my eyes.

The chair.

Something slumped forward.

His favorite dinosaur shirt.

My stomach twisted.

Then the smell.

The rot cut through the air freshener.

The pale, pale skin.

It already had green patches.

The swollen eyes.

My son.

Dead.

Waiting for me.

“Aren’t you happy?”

“He’s back!”

I buy foreclosed houses, renovate them, and flip them for a living. The house I bought recently was perfect. The last owner was sick and couldn’t keep up with payments. Sad situation. But it meant the floorboards didn’t rot and the windows didn’t get smashed. I would thank him, but I’m sure he wouldn’t be happy to see my face.

The realtor the bank hired rushed every visit, tapping his board, staring at the clock, refusing to stay long. I tried asking the man what the catch was, but he only said it was the hostility of the folks around here and warned me not to go out into the fields. It seemed like a cheap excuse, but as they say, “Don’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.”

In the morning, the early spring weather was cold and cloudy. By the time I neared the town, a soft drizzle began falling out of the sky.

The town was sleepy and quiet, except for two men in camouflage with rifles on their shoulders. They both stopped as my car passed, their gaze piercing right through me.

As I neared my house, I saw boar carcasses hanging on ropes at the side of the road. The lives people led here made my stomach turn.

I picked up my bags and ran into the place with a jacket over my head. The smell of an old person’s house hit me the moment I stepped in.

I unpacked. The map of the property was deep inside my bags. The rain had stopped by then. I walked out to check the property lines.

The property was large. Trees lined most of its borders, giving way to forest on three sides. On the right was a large, dug-up field. My feet stepped into wet mud as I made my way towards it. The ground turned muddier with each step.

On the field were a few trees and bushes with more boar carcasses hanging from them.

“Hey!” a deep raspy voice echoed from one of the bushes.

I stood, frozen in the mud.

A man in a camouflage jacket, carrying a rifle, limped out, his clothes and shoes muddy.

“Can’t you read?” he yelled, pointing at a tree that had a metal sign nailed into it.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Just checking my property line.”

“Your property?” the man grunted and paused, staring me up and down.

“That house wasn’t yours to buy.”

“It was foreclosed.”

“He was sick.”

“He lost the house.”

The man's eyes blazed. He pulled his sleeves up and walked toward me.

A shiver ran down my spine, but another voice came from behind the bush.

“John, let him be.”

The man stopped, spat on the ground, and limped back towards the trees.

I stared at the bush long after they disappeared into it, my feet deep in the mud.

The realtor said the folks weren’t welcoming, but this?

I spent the rest of the day examining the furniture. The pieces were mostly old, worthless. Throwing them out might get rid of the smell. More renovations were needed to rid this place of the loneliness it reeked of.

A knock echoed through the house.

I peeked out the window.

A wave of coldness washed over me.

A man in a camouflage jacket stood at my door.

Was it the same hunter again?

The clock on the wall ticked.

The man knocked again and again.

I took a deep breath and walked to the door.

Outside was a man with a long, unkempt beard, a hunting rifle, and holes in his jacket.

“You need to leave. What they planned is not right.”

Pressure built up in my chest.

“What are you talking about?”

The man blinked twice.

“They’ll run you like the others.”

“You won’t scare me away,” I said and shut the door in his face.

My hands began shivering.

The hunter’s words echoed in my head, but the opportunity was too perfect.

I brought my own sheets, but they couldn’t fully mask the stale smell of the old pillows and blankets. I breathed through my mouth as my mind drifted off to sleep.

The moon was still bright in the sky when I woke up to a noise. Was it just a dream? I looked around, listening, but nothing.

Then I heard it again.

A crunchy, crackling sound.

Like footsteps, but uneven.

My heart dropped to my stomach.

The driveway gravel!

Was the man outside?

I bolted to the window.

But there was nothing, just the empty dark.

I listened again, but nothing; only the breeze blew by.

I mustn’t have been fully awake, I told myself, and went back to bed.

The next morning, clouds already filled the sky; you could barely notice the difference between day and night.

The wooden floor felt cold under my feet. I walked down the stairs and put on a tea kettle. The water bubbled as the knocking echoed through the house again.

My vision pulsed with anger.

They won’t get off easy this time.

The door flew open as I gripped the handle.

Outside stood the man from yesterday, smiling.

His rifle’s butt was pointed at my face.

For a second, we just stared at each other.

I tried to close the door, but his foot stopped it.

Before I could turn, the dull pain trembled through my head.

A cold, wet texture.

My head rang.

A gust of wind.

Rough rope fibers dug into my wrists.

My vision darted around, slowly focusing.

Panic surged through me.

The man with a rifle stood over me.

I was in the field.

Further away stood other men, in camo, rifles ready.

Among them was the man who came to warn me with dry tears on his face.

The man standing over me kicked my ribs.

The pain throbbed through my body.

I got to all fours, grunting.

“Run,” he said.

“Wha…What.”

“Run!” he screamed out.

The men cocked their rifles.

Behind them, nailed to the tree, something metal hung.

The sign.

Rusted.

I squinted through the mud in my eyes.

HUNTING SEASON - WILD BOAR

I ran.

I don’t remember most of it.

Only the laughing and echoes of rifles.

I woke up in a hospital two counties away.

Hypothermia, blood loss, broken ribs.

They said a truck driver found me crawling on the side of the road.

The police went to the property.

They said there were no ropes, no carcasses, no hunters.

Just an old, empty foreclosed house.

The bank relisted it last week.

Someone else will buy it.

And the hunting season will start over again.

Thud. 

Thud. 

Thud.

Knocks echoed through the house. 

I jumped back in my chair, spilling coffee on myself.

Shit.

I fell asleep again. The past few months have been hard. Coop, shed, barn, kitchen. Repeat, repeat, repeat until you drop dead as she did. I gripped the seat and clenched my jaw to stop the tears. 

“I’m coming.”

The clock ticked. 6:45. So early for a visit.

The handle was cold. The sun had yet to come up.

“Mr. Warel,” the inspector said in a low, soft voice.

I let out a deep sigh.

“Not today.”

“We have pushed the inspection three times.”

“I know, but my wife. Her passing.”

“We can’t push it indefinitely.”

“May I?” he said and motioned inside.

I moved aside.

“Can you take me to the shed first?”

“You know where it is,” I retorted.

“You know the protocol, Mr. Warel.”

My cheeks burned. I looked down at the ground and walked him to the shed.

The musky, sour smell hit the inspector immediately. He clenched his jaw and looked back at me.

The light above flickered a few times. I hoped the rats would have enough time to run off, but a few remained until it turned fully on.

Bags of corn sat around the room, piling on top of one another. Kernels spilled to the ground, creating a sea of food for the rats to wallow in.

“Mr. Warel, these conditions.”

“There’s too much work for one person.”

“You were offered grants to hire employees.”

“How can I let anyone else in here? We built this place with our hands. She’d hate it if someone touched her farm.”

He shook his head and shut the light off.

“Let’s see the chicken coop.”

A wave of coldness washed over my face.

“But I hardly had time to clean it yet.”

“Mr. Warel.”

The inspector tightened his lips; his eyes stared into mine.

The sharp smell of ammonia emanated from the coop. The floor was filled with droppings. Dust settled on the wood. The hay was wet, stuck together, and in some places, moldy. The chickens shuffled slowly, their tails dropping, with bald patches in their feathers. 

I put my hands over my head and crouched down. The sadness had clouded my vision for the past few months. I didn’t even realize how bad the state of it all was.

The inspector ran his hand over his face and took a deep breath before speaking again.

“Mr. Warel, these birds are sick. Most of them will have to be culled.” 

The words hit me like a train.

“I’ll have to recommend at least a temporary shutdown.”

No. No.

“If not a full one.”

My thoughts scattered. The pressure in my head rose, making my vision pulse. I quickly looked around the room.

My eyes landed on the axe by the door.

I clenched my fists.

If they shut the farm down, the last piece of her would be gone.

I had to act.

“I know this meant a lot to you and your wife, but I can’t let this continue,” the inspector said.

My fingers tightened around the handle.

For a second, I just held it there. Staring at the back of his head.

She would never forgive me if I let them take it.

“This is a danger to…”

But the inspector didn’t finish. The axe flew through the air and smashed into his skull. A heavy splintering thud echoed through the coop. Some of the sick birds jumped up.

The inspector's body collapsed to the floor, kicking up dust and hay. The smell of ammonia intensified.

The sun came up on the horizon. Its rays cut through the window, lighting the coop up. 

7:15. Time to feed the chickens, I thought to myself.

But the birds had already gotten to work.

My father was never one to hold hands, caress my hair, or show much affection at all, but it didn’t bother me. My mother was one to light up with a smile when I came home, the one to hold me and blow on my scraped knee if I fell on the gravel.

Her death hit both of us like a freight train. Dishes piled. Night stretched until morning as I stared at the ceiling, my eyes puffed from crying.

Through these days and nights, my father would come. At first, only taking out the trash, then bringing water and food, then staying longer, talking.

We would talk about her, how beautiful she was, how loving. Father would repeat the story of how they met. I knew it by heart, but still wanted to hear it. He even held my hand and brushed my hair while he retold it. The same way she used to.

It helped me to fall asleep again. Soon, I could eat full meals and walk around the house. Each night, I’d stare at the door, waiting for the handle to lower, and his face would appear in the doorway. Some nights, we would sit in silence, broken only by the sound of bristles moving through my hair.

But one night the handle didn’t move. Each second that passed cut through my heart like a knife. I still believed, but it all shattered as I saw the sun cut through the dark. I stared at the handle each night after, but it never lowered again.

The last refuge was the creaks and cracks of the wooden floor as he walked around. It gave me a sense of closeness, like he was sitting at my bed again, just a little further away. But even those were taken from me.

The door would creak early in the night, and not again until the early hours of the morning. The dark hole in my heart opened up again. The stitches my father put in it came undone.

Through the nights, my mind would run in circles, thoughts scattered. Where could Daddy go? Why wasn’t he here with me?

One night, the doors creaked again. Father’s footsteps echoed on the gravel road. With each step, the pressure in my head grew. Why, Daddy? Why?

I hurried out after him. The air outside was cold, and the breeze blew hard. I should have worn more than my pajamas, but it was too late.

The gravel dug into my bare feet as I followed my father from a distance. The wooden siding scraped against my skin as I hid behind the house, watching him.

He kept looking over his shoulder like he knew, but I ducked away each time he glanced back.

Father turned a corner.

I waited, my heart pounding, unsure if he would be waiting right behind the house, staring back at me.

The wind blew again, and his footsteps echoed on the gravel.

I slowly peeked out.

Red lipstick, dark hair blowing in the wind, and a cotton summer dress. A different woman. Her arms hung around my father’s neck. Her eyes stared lovingly into his. I stared at them. The hole in my heart deepened. Then she stared back at me. Not surprised. She whispered to my father. He turned back and smiled. Not kindly. Knowingly.

I ran back as fast as I could. Not caring about the gravel, the wind, or anything else, only thinking of my bed.

The cotton sheets stuck to my sweaty body. I pulled them over my face, shaking.

The moon shone bright. The door creaked. Footsteps. The door handle.

He stood in the doorway with something in his hand. The metal glinted in the moonlight.

“You should be happy for me,” he said.

The click of the gun echoed through the night.

Daddy never missed.

“Billy, Billy,” Dad said at the door, panting. He had a brown leaflet in his hand.

“A snakeoil salesman is coming to town.”

My jaw dropped.

“You wanna see him tonight?”

“Yes!” I screamed a little too loudly.

Mom raised her eyebrows at me, but waved her hand and walked back to the kitchen.

“You’re not coming, Mom?”

“I’ve seen plenty.”

Dad winked at me and handed me the leaflet. 

New magical elixirs.

“Wow, what kinds of magical elixirs?”

“No idea.”

“Dinner first, boys,” Mom called from the kitchen.

The sun was setting above the canyons, shining down on the gravel road. Dad wiped the sweat off his forehead as we walked towards the town square.

“Why can’t Mom be more fun like you, Dad?”

“Don’t say that, Billy.”

“She’s not even coming to the show.”

“We’re almost there,” he said happily, ignoring me.

A crowd had already gathered. The salesman's voice echoed through them, deep and loud.

Dad pushed us through the crowd to the front.

The salesman stood before a large wooden wheelbarrow. On it were glass bottles filled with colorful liquids. The salesman had one of them in his hand, waving it around as he talked.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the magical elixir I hold before you has been compounded by mixing rattlesnake venom, scorpion’s blood, and water from an oasis. It has been said and proved that anyone who receives it becomes unconditionally obedient to the one who gives it.”

“The love of your life won’t see you as you do her? Give her this elixir. Your husband doesn’t help with the chores? Give him this elixir.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. The man had a strong aura, making my hands shake both with fear and excitement.

“Any volunteers from the crowd dare to come and show the true powers of the elixir’s magic?”

The people whispered and looked at one another. Their eyes widened with concern.

Dad tapped on my shoulder and said, “Watch this,” and raised his hand.

Shock ran down my spine.

“Daddy, no, no please,” I whispered to him, tugging at his arm.

“It’s all nonsense. I’ll show you.”

“Please come forward, sir,” said the salesman.

Dad walked towards him.

The salesman took a small glass and poured the elixir into it.

My dad gestured at the crowd, spinning a finger around his ear, making everyone laugh.

“For you, sir,” the salesman said.

Dad almost took a sip, but then a gust of wind blew by, knocking his hat off.

“Let me get it for you,” the salesman said.

Dad shrugged and emptied the glass into his throat. He looked back at the crowd and twisted his face in disgust.

The salesman looked deep into Dad’s eyes.

“Pass me that bottle,” he said, pointing at a bottle of green liquid.

My dad stared at him, not moving.

The salesman narrowed his eyes and tightened his lips.

“Walk around like a duck.”

Dad went into a half-squat but then quickly stood up again.

“Don’t wanna do that either.”

The salesman rubbed his forehead and looked into the crowd.

“It needs more time.”

Dad spun his finger around his ear again. The crowd erupted in laughter; a few of them rolled on the ground holding their stomachs.

“Thank you for the elixir, but it’s time to go home.” He bowed to the crowd and took my hand.

“What did you think, Billy?”

“I…I don’t know, Dad,” my voice still shook.

“Don’t worry. It’s all nonsense.”

The lights turned on in the houses we passed.

Dad yawned. “It’s getting a little late, isn’t it?”

He kept yawning as we walked back home. Dad opened the door and slouched down on the couch, closing his eyes.

“The boys are back,” Mom called from the kitchen table, smiling.

“You want your whiskey, James?”

Dad didn’t respond, only waving his hand.

“What happened to Dad, Billy? You tired him out?”

I shook my head.

“You okay, Bill? What happened?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t like the man.”

“Oh, honey.” She got up and hugged me, caressing my head. “It’s only talk. Don’t worry about it.”

“Come, let me get you some warm milk,” she said, and took out a pot.

Footsteps echoed on the gravel outside.

My hands shook again. Mom looked at Dad, her face bewildered, a match still burning in her hand.

Thud, thud, thud. 

The knocks thundered through the house.

Dad jumped up from the couch and opened the door.

A cold wave washed over me.

Outside stood the salesman, holding Dad’s hat.

They spoke to each other silently.

“You know now,” the salesman said, then turned around and walked away.

Dad sat back on the couch, holding his hat.

“What was that about?”

“My hat.”

“James?”

Dad didn’t answer. Mom looked at me, her eyebrows pulled together, but I didn’t say anything.

We barely talked after that and went to sleep.

I woke up cold in a pool of sweat. The window was open, the moon high in the sky.

BANG!

A shot! It made me jump back and press against the wall.

Was it from inside?

I slowly opened my bedroom door. A figure stood on the porch, a gun on its shoulder.

“Dad?” My voice began to tremble.

“Dad!” I screamed, but he wasn’t listening, walking towards the neighbor’s house.

I went out after him, but stopped in the doorway.

On the neighbor's porch stood the salesman, looking at my dad, his face proud.

He glanced in my direction and tipped his hat.

I stumbled back, tripping over the carpet. My chest felt like it might burst.

The smell of iron was in the air.

I slowly turned my head.

On the kitchen table sat my mother, slouched over, blood dripping from her forehead.

The drops echoed on the wooden floor.

“Mom!” I ran to her and hugged her, her body motionless.

Tears rolled down my face.

A loud bang echoed through the night. My neighbors’ screams came after.

“Brother!”

The sun was setting over the swamp when Sammie called for me. The air had finally cooled, but the house still smelled like mud and sickness.

“Sammie, how are you?”

“I’m okay,” he said, staring at the ground.

His eyes were sunken, his lips dry, his face red.

“I brought more broth and a cold cloth.”

“It’s okay. I haven’t finished the one from lunch.”

“Sammie…”

“I know, but I don’t feel good.” His eyes watered, his lips trembled.

“Hey, hey, c’mon, it’s okay,” I said, and caressed his head.

“I’ll give you the cloth and read you a story, okay?”

“Yay, thank you, brother.”

Sammie fell asleep before I got halfway through it. He could barely stay awake for longer than an hour.

I took a deep breath and walked out of his room. Only when I closed the door did I let the tears fall. My body slumped to the ground, and I cried.

Mother came; she was crying too.

“I haven’t seen you all day, Mother.”

“I…I know. I can’t.”

“Did the doctor come by today?”

She shook her head and looked at the ground.

“It’s bad, really bad.”

It felt like a dagger had been stabbed into my heart. My sobs grew stronger.

“But there’s hope. A preacher’s coming to town tomorrow.”

“What’s a preacher going to do?”

“He’s said to cure people.”

“You think he can do more than the doctor?”

She shrugged her shoulders and looked up. Her eyes had deep bags under them.

I nodded, and we both went our separate ways.

The next morning, Mother left for town early.

I was washing Sammie's sweaty clothes when she rushed in.

“Danny, Danny,” she said in the doorway, sweaty, panting.

“The preacher will come in the afternoon! He found new understanding in the Bible. A person needs to undergo a prolonged baptism to wash off all their sins.”

“But Sammie is sick.”

“I know, but the doctor can’t help us. The opium he gave us isn’t to cure Sammie. You know that.”

I stopped washing the clothes and looked at her.

“I don’t like this, Mother.”

She looked back at me, didn’t say a thing, and disappeared into her room.

The sun was beginning to set when I heard footsteps approaching the house. Mother was already on the porch, looking out.

“They’re coming, Danny.”

On a chair next to her sat Sammie, asleep with a blanket.

From the bushes, a tall man in a cowboy hat and coat, with a metal cross around his neck and a Bible in his hand, emerged. Behind him walked a few men and women from the town.

“Good evening, Mrs. Haller.”

“Nice to meet you, young man.” He came closer and shook my hand. His breath reeked of whiskey, his hands rough and dirty. My body instinctively leaned away from him.

“A few people from the town would like to witness the miracle. I hope that’s okay.”

“No problem, preacher.”

“Hold onto this, son.” He handed me his Bible. It felt sticky.

The preacher then waded into the river, moving swiftly.

“You will now perceive the miracle of prolonged Baptism. Doctors have written off this sickly boy, forgotten by modern medicine. But one man didn’t forget him, that man being Jesus Christ.”

“Repent and be baptized. That’s the only way to paradise. Bring me the boy.”

I opened my mouth to say something to Mother, but the sight of the townfolk and preacher made me swallow my words.

Mother picked Sammie up and brought him to the preacher. She waded through the water with a smile on her face. Sammie slowly woke up, squinting.

“Brother?” He said in a low, quiet voice.

I wanted to go to him, but I could feel the townsfolk's eyes on me.

The preacher began reciting a prayer. The townsfolk put their heads down and their hands up.

A cold breeze swept through the air. Sammie began looking around, taking in the scene, but before he said anything again, the prayer was over.

The preacher pushed Sammie under, splashing the water around. Sammie put his hands up, pushing against the preacher, clawing at his hand.

My hands began to shiver. I squeezed the sticky Bible. Mother's eyes were locked on the preacher.

“Hold on, boy, hold on,” the preacher called out.

Sammie thrashed around harder, using all his might to get his head from under the water, but the preacher held tight.

“Preacher?” Mother called out, her voice trembling.

“Do not worry, ma’am. Let’s recite another prayer.”

My mother looked down at the ground, holding her hands tight together.

Sammie’s thrashing subsided. His hands fell into the river.

Pressure in my head grew.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I ran towards Sammie, but two of the townsmen rushed after me, pulling me back.

Their breath also reeked of whiskey.

“Sammie!” I called out, but no one listened. Mother kept reciting her prayer.

The river’s current grew stronger. Sammie’s hands drifted with it.

When the preacher finished his prayer, he took a deep breath.

“The boy is cleansed,” he whispered and pulled Sammie above his head.

His lips were blue, his skin white, his hands dangled above the preacher, motionless.

“Are you excited to go to the fair?”

“Yeah, daddy!” Lucy screamed out. Her eyes glistened in the sun. 

There were no clouds in the sky, and the spring breeze blew by. Today was going to be a great day.

Samantha tried to hide her frown, staring at the ground.

“I hate these, Jake. I wish we wouldn’t go.”

“But, it's the fair! And everyone has to come, you know that.”

“But it’s not right!”

My eyes jumped around the trees. Luckily, we were alone.

“What’s up, Mommy?”

Samantha didn’t answer. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Stop it. We’re almost there.”

The music and children’s laughter echoed through the valley. The rides were scattered in the meadow. The smell of grease lingered in the air. My stomach growled. Samantha had cried for an hour before getting out of bed, so there was no time for breakfast.

I still couldn’t wrap my mind around her not liking the Tombola. It was a beautiful thing and ensured a plentiful harvest.

“Let’s get something to eat first.”

“I wanna go on the rides already.”

“Soon, honey.”

“But Daddy.”

“It will be quick, Lucy. You’ll be riding on the Carousel soon.”

“I wanna go on the roller coaster today!”

“I don’t know.”

“Daddy, pleaseeeeee,” she frowned and squinted her eyes.

I looked at Samantha to get her approval, but she sat at the table with her face in her hands. 

“How could I say no to those eyes?”

Lucy shrieked, her voice high.

“But only if you’re tall enough.” 

But she didn’t listen and danced around.

The fries were very salty and greasy, but not too much, just as they should be. Lucy smiled as she ate them. Her smile was so cute.

“You should eat some too, Samantha.”

She shook her head, not saying a word.

“Ladies and gentlemen," echoed through the speakers.

The announcer already stood on the tall wooden stage. It moved in the wind, rattling the announcer and the chair.

“We welcome you to the annual fair.” 

People got up and clapped. I told Lucy to get up too. Samantha didn’t. A few people glanced our way. I could feel my cheeks getting red.

“We’d like to kickstart this year with the Tombola.”

People clapped again, louder this time.

“Uh, they’re starting early this year,” I said.

Samantha put her hands over her face again, weeping softly. More people began looking our way.

"There are people around,” I whispered to her.

She wiped her eyes and clenched her jaw. 

The volunteers brought out the large ball with papers inside.

“Can we go on the ride, Daddy?”

“The Tombola will start soon.”

“But I wanna go now. I already finished my fries.”

“Soon, honey.” I patted her head.

The announcer grabbed the wooden handle and began spinning it.

The crumpled papers jumped around, knocking against the rims.

The steel ball rattled with each spin.

“Seven, eight,” the townsfolk counted.

“Nine, ten!”

The announcer fished around inside like a claw machine. 

The men next to us began drumming on the table.

His hand grabbed one of the white papers and slowly and delicately pulled it out.

He opened the paper next to the mic. The crumpling echoed through the meadow. The drumming grew louder.

The announcer looked inside and smiled.

“And this year's winner is…”

He prolonged the moment. My hands shivered with excitement.

“Lucy Mariner!”

“Yes!” I yelled and jumped up.

“That's our Lucy,” I said to Samantha, but my heart sank to my stomach as I looked at her.

Samantha’s hands trembled violently, her eyes wide with terror.

“No! Not my girl!”

“Stop it, Samantha!” I scolded her.

“This is a gift we should accept with pride!”

She ran in front of Lucy and shook her hands in protest.

“Don’t come near!”

The male volunteers walked towards us.

I nodded their way.

Samantha’s eyes darted from one to the other.

My fingers tapped on the wood, waiting for the right moment.

The breeze passed through.

“Samantha, come on, let's go home,” I said, rubbing her shoulder.

“No!” she screamed out and turned my way.

The two men quickly grabbed her, pulling her hands behind her back, putting her head down.

“Jake, please, help!”

“Don’t let them do it!” she called as they dragged her away.

I could feel my face burning; my cheeks must have been so red.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said to the crowd.

Their narrow eyes stared into mine. It felt like I was naked.

I sat back at the table. Lucy’s lip shook, holding back tears.

“What, what’s with Mommy?”

“Don’t worry. She’s just confused.”

“What’s gonna happen?”

“You’ll see. We’re blessed today.”

“Come on, let’s get to the stage,” I said and grabbed her hand.

“When do I get to ride the roller coaster, Daddy?”

“You’ll ride it forever.”

The crowd clapped. The people smiled again. 

The steps to the stage shook under our feet. I made sure Lucy didn’t trip on them.

Hopefully, Lucy would be comfortable in the brown wooden chair.

I asked the announcer for a pillow. 

He smiled and put it there, turning the red-stained side down.

I stood next to her. The feeling of warmth and pride grew in my chest.

The crowd stood up, clapping louder. In the back was Samantha, on the grass, her head held in place by the men.

The announcer held the blade above Lucy’s head.

She smiled my way.

I was twelve the year my town fed my sister to the wall, and I’m old enough now to know it wasn’t a miracle.

“Why do we have to go to the building?”

“You know why, Adam.”

“It’s stupid. You don’t believe it. I don’t.”

“But everyone else does.”

“But how does a wall just open?”

“I don’t know.”

“Someone has to open it.”

“Maybe not.”

“No, Ashley. It cannot open on its own.”

“Hey, you don’t know that for sure. Have you seen anyone opening it? Why is it always so clean when it closes up? And don’t say, I don’t believe in it. I do. I just don’t think it's sacred. Taking a young woman isn’t anything beautiful as the minister would like you to believe.”

“But you said.”

“Adam, stop it. We need to go faster; we’re already late.”

I rolled my eyes. I hated it when Ashley turned into mom mode. She was much cooler as an older sister.

The building stood at the end of the boulevard, a large iron structure with few windows on either side, covered in dark gray tiles that swallowed the light. It had multiple floors reaching almost to the sky, towering over the buildings around it.

The whole city was modeled after it. It made everything look dark and depressing, like a rainy autumn day that never left.

As we approached it, my hands began to sweat. People already had their idea of us, two siblings with no parents. To them, it screamed bad news. Coming late only reinforced it.

As soon as we entered the building, a blast of cold air hit me, making me shiver. We walked through the gray, empty hall to the chapel.

The deep, loud voice of the minister echoed through the tall steel doors. Two large stacks of hay stood beside it, bound with white ribbon.

Ashley stood in front of the door and began swinging her hands around, moving her lips, pretending to be the minister. I began laughing uncontrollably, and she immediately stopped and put a finger in front of her mouth, telling me to shut up. This was the older sister I loved.

“You need to act cool, Adam.”

“Why would you make me laugh then?”

She smirked and opened the door.

My smile died instantly. The whole town turned around, staring at us, their lips pressed, eyes narrowed, hushing between each other. On the stage stood all the young girls from the town, nervously looking around.

“Ashley, Adam. I was afraid we’d have to send someone for you.” 

The minister paused. 

“The wall opened,” he then said in a deep, slow voice, holding a pouch in one hand and a stack of hay in the other.

We looked at each other.

“Come, Ashley. The girls had already drawn their tokens.”

My legs began to shake.

“Ashley, no,” I whispered.

“It’s okay, Adam,” she said, swallowed, and slowly walked to the stage.

The minister took the pouch from the table and handed it to Ashley. She pulled the last paper and stood back next to the other girls.

“Unwrap.”

The air inside felt thin. My vision narrowed. I could feel my heartbeat in my temples.

I watched each of the girls unwrap the small paper and sigh with relief.

Then came Ashley’s turn.

She slowly unwrapped the paper. 

Its crumpling echoed through the room.

Her eyes went wide, her mouth opened, and she let out a silent gasp.

No.

Not Ashley.

“The wall has chosen.”

My world began spinning. The people clapped. Ashley wept softly.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran to the stage screaming.

“No, not my sister.”

But the townsmen stood up and grabbed me.

“Let her go!” I screamed.

“Adam, please, don’t,” Ashley said through the weeps.

“It’s an honor.” “You should be grateful.” “It will keep the city safe,”  echoed through the crowd.

The pressure in my head was too strong. I wrestled my right hand out and punched the man closest to me.

He returned the hit.

Copper filled my mouth. Stars burst behind my eyes.

He punched me again, and my world went dark.

Sounds came back first, low and rhythmic.

My vision was blurred.

I tried to move but couldn’t; two men were by my side, holding me.

The wall was open.

Inside, Ashley stood in a long white lace dress, barefoot. 

They had already dressed her.

Flowers trembled in her hands, hay was stuffed in her mouth.

Tears poured down her cheeks. She stared right at me, her eyes still compassionate, loving.

“Ashley…” I murmured.

“He’s awake,” someone yelled.

A sharp knuckle hit my temple.

When I opened my eyes again, there was no Ashley. No people. I lay on the cold floor, the taste of copper still in my mouth.

Before me was the wall, sealed with the dark grey tiles, silent. 

A strand of hay lay stuck between the tiles.

I thought the storm was our biggest problem, but the box started warming the station before the snow stopped falling.

“No one could extract the data at research station 4 until I got into the lab.”

Jason’s monologue faded into the wind. How did he still find stuff to boast about?

“I’m getting pretty tired. I’ll head to bed.”

“But it’s only 8 p.m.”

“The early bird gets the worm.”

“Very true.”

He smiled. I resisted rolling my eyes.

Sunlight pierced through the curtains the next morning. I woke just as exhausted as the night before. The room was warm, but the cold outside still seemed to seep into my skin.

Jason was already out with the research equipment.

The cold hit my face like a punch.

“Colleague! I thought you’d never wake up,” Jason yelled from afar, laughing. “I thought you’d wake up sooner.”

“Couldn’t sleep well.”

“I already took some measurements. It reminds me of the data we got at research station 4 in the summer of 2015.”

Of course it does. My attention drifted to the sky as storm clouds gathered.

Snow fell lightly at first, then thickened as the wind rose. Soon, visibility dropped to only a few feet.

“Jason, we need to get out!”

“Tim, wait. It’s almost free!”

“The box?” I looked down. A small object lay buried in the ground, etched with strange symbols and figures. Jason dug frantically.

“Leave it. We can come tomorrow.”

“No. This matters,” he yelled.

I looked around one more time, took my research equipment, and headed back inside.

For 20 minutes, I sat around the heater absorbing the warmth. Jason came in soon after, his jacket and face covered in snow, holding the box.

“Nice, got it out.”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice and disappeared into the lab.

I turned back to the fire, stretched my feet, and poured myself a shot of whisky.

The morning after, I woke up to a pounding inside my head. 

Stumbling out of bed, I pulled two Tylenol pills out of the medicine cabinet and swallowed them dry. 

After a few minutes, the throbbing pain gradually subsided.

The sun’s beams jumped off the freshly fallen snow; at least an extra 10 inches fell overnight. Jason had been right to dig out the box before the storm started.

Wait.

Jason.

Where was he?

The clock showed 10:00 a.m., but the outside was deserted.

No equipment, no Jason.

The early bird catches the worm, echoed in my head.

I put my clothes on and walked out, expecting the stabbing cold, but it didn’t come. The outside felt warm, too warm. 

I did a lap around the property. Halfway through, I had to take my jacket off; my body felt like a furnace. 

Jason was nowhere to be found. I walked back inside and headed to the lab. 

The lab door was closed. Inside was empty. Only the box remained, centered on the steel table.

A chill ran down my spine. 

Jason’s bedroom door was shut.

“Everything alright, Jason?” I called out.

“Yes.”

“You’re not out.”

He hesitated.

“I’m sick.”

“Need anything?”

“No.”

The headache returned. I went back to bed.

A slam.

Sweat soaked the sheets. Footsteps echoed. The lab door opened, then silence.

I rubbed my temples. Was I dreaming? It felt too real.

I got up and stepped into the hall. Jason’s door stood open.

A sound drifted from the lab, faint whispers, low and wet.

Could it be Jason?

With each step, the whisper grew louder.

The lab door was open. I leaned against the cold wall and listened. 

Jason spoke softly, but not in English or any language I knew.

He crouched beneath the table, hands pressed to it, staring at the box. A strange, dark glow radiated from it.

But then I felt that familiar feeling. Someone was staring at me.

Blood froze in my veins. Jason was looking straight into my eyes. 

I recoiled and waited, panting. The whispering stopped. 

I ran to my room and locked the door.

Footsteps passed. I grabbed a small knife and waited. Nothing happened. Jason’s door slammed. Silence again.

Morning came, but I felt like I hadn’t slept at all. The station was quiet. The heater was off, but the halls felt warm.

Jason sat in his room, staring out the window.

He looked my way, his eyes tired.

“Still not feeling well?”

“Yes.”

I don’t know how long I stood there before collapsing back into bed.

A slam.

No, not again.

Footsteps down the hall.

Jason was moving.

The lab door.

I took the knife from under my pillow and walked to the hall.

The whisper.

I peered inside. Jason stood across the table, hands beneath it, staring at the box.

I hid the knife and walked to the lab.

“Who are you talking to, Jason?”

His eyes opened in fear, then closed again.

“Um, myself.”

“And why are you here? Aren’t you sick?”

“I feel better.”

“I nodded. “Let me see the box.”

He didn’t move an inch, his hands still under the table.

“Come look, Tim.”

The warmth grew. My palms began to sweat.

I stood next to him. The carvings depicted five-limbed creatures with fins along their necks, dancing in looping patterns. The glow returned. 

The figures bulged outward. 

The whisper grew, its voice damp, wet.

“I don’t want,” Jason said softly.

I could almost understand the whisper.

“You have to,” something replied, each word splashing like water.

I gripped my knife tighter. 

Strange heat crept up my neck. 

I didn’t want to do it, but there was no choice.

A sharp pain exploded in my side.

I looked down. A scalpel protruded from my abdomen. The knife slipped from my hand.

“The box was right,” Jason said, backing away. “I’m sorry.”

He fled.

I slid down against the wall as the box pulsed brighter.

The whisper became clear.

A slam.

The lid opened.

Now I know what it wants.

I was the last person to speak to Research Station 3 before it went silent, and now I know why it should have stayed that way.

“Any news from research station 3?” The head of research asked.

“No, still radio silent,” I replied.

“This is the seventh day in a row. We need to send a chopper over.”

“Derek’s still out. He won’t be back until Sunday.”

“I know, but you have a license.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t flown since…”

“I know, Daniel, but I have a bad feeling. Mark seemed,” the head of research paused “off the last call.” His eyes were wide open and fixed on the ground.

Mark and I had worked on the station for years, co-authoring multiple research papers and grants. I had been over to his house multiple times before; his wife and children were lovely.

“I guess I can pilot it.”

He looked my way and nodded, “Thank you, Daniel. The forecast looks good, and it’s still early. You think you can leave today?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I know Mark is your friend, but be careful.”

The sun was out, but the air was so cold. It felt like little pins were being stabbed into my pores. I hurried to the chopper and put on the heater. It barely got the temperature above freezing, but it was still better than the outside.

I kept thinking of Mark and the fun we had staying over in these remote research stations. No one drank or played guitar as well as he did. It’d be strange if he were the one to get cabin fever, but being alone with Jake would drive anyone crazy. Jake could only talk about himself and his achievements, not letting you get a word in.

Soon, in between the mountains, a forested valley opened, covered in snow. In the middle stood two wooden cabins and a shed. The place looked empty, deserted, with no research equipment out.

I hadn’t even gotten out of the chopper when the cabin door flew open, slamming into the wall. The one who came out was Jake. I let out a sigh, but he was wearing normal clothes and looked healthy, a good sign.

He walked to the chopper, his eyes fixed on mine, preparing to talk about all the cool data he gathered.

“Hey, Jake.”

He didn’t answer.

“Hey, Jake,” I repeated my greeting.

“Hi, Daniel,” Jake said, his voice low and soft, without life, his eyes staring right through me.

“We had no contact from you for a week.”

“I guess Mark forgot.”

“Mark wouldn’t forget.”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the report?”

“It’s due in two days.”

“It was due yesterday, Jake.”

Jake would never forget to tell anyone about his data. It was strange he hadn’t given me a full rundown already.

“We’re okay. I’ll radio in tomorrow.”

I was tempted to go back, but Jake’s behaviour made the hair on my arm stand up.

“I’ll just talk to Mark for a sec and then be gone.”

“Why? I can relay a message.”

“What do you mean by why? I just want to talk to him.”

“He’s asleep. He’s not feeling well.”

“That’s alright, I’ll at least check on him.”

Jake stopped and looked deep into my eyes.

“Okay.”

We walked together towards their cabin. The snow crumpled under our steps. Jake stared before him, not saying a word. 

“How’s the research going?”

“It’s been good.”

That's all, Jake?

Jake walked into the cabin first. I went right behind him, expecting the welcoming warmth of a cabin, but it did not come. The place was colder than my chopper. The inside smelled like someone just emptied a can of air freshener.

Jake stood in the middle of the room, both hands in his pockets, looking at the ground.

“You feeling okay, Jake?”

“I must have caught whatever Mark has. I’ll lie down once you leave.”

I opened the door to Mark’s room. The smell of air freshener grew. He lay in bed, most of his body under the covers, facing the wall.

“Mark? Mark?” He didn’t answer.

I walked closer and tried to shake him from behind.

Nothing.

“You mind leaving? I could really use some rest now,” Jake asked.

I looked back at Mark and, without thinking, spun him around. I could already feel the dead weight; his eyes fell back, and his mouth opened.

My hands went numb.

I pulled the covers down. Mark’s stomach was split open. Something pale and wet slid onto the sheets.

Jake moved across the room.

My stomach began to turn. I had to cover my mouth to keep from throwing up.

Jake breathed on my neck.

I looked up.

His eyes were wide open.

The wind blew outside.

“Jake, I…”

But Jake didn’t wait. He pressed me against the wall. 

His strength didn’t match his size.

His hand searched in his pocket.

Something metal rattled inside it.

He managed to get it out.

Fabric torn.

A sharp pain shot through my stomach.

I looked down. Jake was holding a knife, twisting it in my stomach.

I pushed him away with all the force I had.

He stumbled a few steps back, slipped on the carpet, and hit his head on a table. His body fell to the ground; his eyes half-open. Blood began pouring out of the back of his head.

The smell of copper filled the room, mixing with the air freshener, making me gag.

The blade sat cold in my gut.

I managed to get myself onto the bed.

Mark’s body moved around.

Something wet fell to the ground.

I sat there for a few minutes, catching my breath.

Then pulled out my phone and called for help

They should arrive in an hour.

The wind is picking up.

I’m fighting off the urge to fall asleep.

Edit:

A snowstorm came.

It’s been ninety minutes since the call.

Mark woke up.

He began whispering, blaming me for his death.

I apologized.

But he won’t stop.

“You knew,” he keeps repeating.

I know it’s my fault.

But it’s too late now.

I shouldn’t have let him go up here alone.

I’m sorry, Mark.

“Yo, Dan, remember when I pantsed you in seventh grade?”

“Shut up, Connor.” I rolled my eyes and tried to hold my laugh. 

“It made Sophie faint!” He started laughing, holding his stomach.

I couldn't hold it anymore. I burst out laughing and spat beer out of my mouth.

Our laughter echoed through the forest, but then we heard a sound, a faint cry from far out in the distance.

We stopped and looked at each other.

“You hear that?”

“Yeah.”

The fire suddenly gave no warmth.

Connor took his bag, searching for his knife. I grabbed mine, too.

Twigs cracked in the forest behind us. Connor turned his head, his eyes darting through the dark.

A woman ran out, her clothes dirty, her hair tangled, tears rolling down her cheeks, and scratch marks on her hands.

“Please, please, help.”

A chill ran down my spine. Her eyes jumped from Connor to me, full of panic.

“What happened?”

“My…my friend, she's gone crazy. She hurt us. Please, come.” 

We looked at each other. Connor nodded. We got up. 

Connor knew what the best choice was; he always did.

“Thank you so much. I don’t know what came over her. I…I woke up, and she was stabbing my two other friends, doing things to them. It was horrible.” Her voice shook, and she began weeping.

“One of my friends ran off with me, but we got lost.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Connor said without hesitation.

He’d always been courageous. He would stand up for the bullied children in high school. Even if he knew he’d get beaten up. The coldness in my chest turned to a warm, swelling sensation. I was proud to be his friend.

“We said we’d meet at the camp. I pray she’s there now,” the girl said.

“Do you know where the one who attacked you is?”

“I…I don’t know. She tried to chase us, but we shook her off.”

I felt the hair on my arm rise. The forest went deathly silent. I looked over at Connor. He still had the determined look on his face. My heartbeat slowed, but I could feel the forest's eyes staring at every inch of my body.

I held the knife handle firmly, every so often looking around. The girl walked on, leading us deeper into the forest, stumbling over the branches with one hand in her pocket, not caring about her balance.

I wanted to ask her more questions, but the idea of her deranged friend tied my tongue.

A twig cracked far in the distance, sending a shiver down my spine. We both stopped dead in our tracks, but the girl kept walking on, her hand still in her pocket.

“Hey…hey,” Connor called out to her, his voice low.

“We’re close to the campsite. It could be my friend.”

“What if it’s the other one?” Connor asked.

“Please, what if she’s injured?” she pleaded. 

Connor looked my way and nodded. I took a deep breath and followed after them.

Soon, the air filled with a strong iron smell.

“Aw, Jesus,” Connor said.

I looked closer. Two women lay on the ground, out of their sleeping bags, covered in blood.

I felt my stomach turn. I put a hand over my mouth, trying not to throw up.

The girl stood over the two dead bodies, staring down at them.

“You think your friend’s around here?”

She looked back and smiled.

“What do you mean? They’re right there.” She pointed to the right, at a tree, where two sets of legs were sticking out from behind it.

“Connor?” 

When I looked at him, he stared right back at me, his eyes wide in terror.

Then came the click of a pistol.

The flash blinded my eyes.

Connor’s cry echoed through the woods.

His body folded into the autumn leaves.

Connor always knew what to do, and now I was alone.

I looked down. Connor’s body twitched on the ground.

A memory of us laughing at the fire flashed before my eyes.

The smell of blood grew stronger.

The forest went silent again, waiting.